For Want of a Wand
by vlad the inhaler
Summary: Incredible, how a single change in history can lead to a whole new world. For Harry Potter, all it takes is a wand.
1. Prologue

Nymphadora Tonks sat quietly at the old oak table, her shoulders hunched and both hands wrapped tightly around a mug of tea that had long since lost its heat. Everything about her appeared battered, an almost palpable misery surrounding her stooped frame.

With a sigh, she lifted the mug to her lips, her nose scrunching in disgust as the cooling fluid made its way down her throat. Thrusting the mug aside, she picked up a random stack of papers, ignoring the scores of other piles that covered every available surface.

Nothing, it seemed, did any good. Within a minute, her mind was wandering once more, inevitably reliving the many months since Harry Potter, boy-who-always-somehow-got-through-everything, had disappeared without a trace.

Suddenly, a blinking green light broke her concentration. With a growl, she pulled out her wand, lazily aiming at the cheery orb and shattering it into a dozen pieces. The Weasley matriarch's attempt at Christmas cheer was destroying her ability to wallow, and that, Tonks thought petulantly, simply wouldn't do.

A moment later, she burst out laughing, a rueful sound that bordered on hysterical, before a sob wrenched through her throat at the hopelessness of the situation. Sirius was dead, Harry could very well have followed in his footsteps, and Remus had all but lost it, the fledgling relationship between the two shattered by the sudden and massive downturn of events.

And Fleur. The French witch was not much more than an afterthought, though that was unfair – she certainly was a piece of this miserable puzzle, and one which that truthfully, Tonks was genuinely fond of. The two had gotten on well enough, sharing a camaraderie in their irritation at Molly Weasley, as well as Tonks' complete lack of resentment towards the French witch's monopoly of the younger males' attention. Nothing, after all, beats a Metamorphmagus between the sheets.

Such thoughts allowed a ghost of a grin to cross Tonks' face, before she let out another sigh, once again fighting to concentrate on the report in front of her. She needn't had bothered, for not a minute later she was interrupted by a group of shouting wizards, storming into the already camped parlor.

"Really Albus, you should see their faces – even the dimmest among them are beginning to realize things are not all as they seem." Professor McGonagall exclaimed with a voice oddly balanced between poised calm and terrible panic. "If we cannot maintain an atmosphere of safety on the very grounds of Hogwarts, I cannot see any hope in the future of this war."

Tonks looked up, genuinely surprised at the utterance of defeatism. Minerva had always been the most pragmatic of the Order members, and to hear such her speak of such hopelessness…

Albus Dumbledore himself appeared rattled, his eyes weary and sunken beneath his spectacles, his body radiating strength and leadership but lacking much of its normal confidence. "Minerva, I am well aware of the circumstances, and I still maintain that inciting panic is not the solution to our problems."

"Albus, y'ave gone mad! The boy is dead, or else he'd be better off that way. It's time to move forward with an alternative plan." Moody, ever the pessimist, yet steadfast in his determination to counterattack against the dark. Whether he truly believed in the good fight or simply had a personal vendetta, Tonks had no idea, and had never found anyone willing to confirm her suspicions, one way or the other.

"Ah…Miss Tonks, we did think you would be here. Might we have a word?"

'Shit!' She was more than a little behind on her reports for the Order and the Ministry, and nothing about the three elders in front of her gave the impression that she was being rewarded. 'What, my dear Tonks, have we gotten ourselves into?'

Noting her anxiety, Dumbledore let out a grim chuckle. "Nothing to fear, not at all. Rather, we believe we may have found a new assignment for you…I'm daresay you're not too fond of ever growing piles of paperwork."

If anything, her edginess increased. Dumbledore may very well be the most powerful wizard of the current age, and one of the few in recorded history to be so benevolent in that power. That being said, he was still a manipulative old bastard who had a tendency to have a viciously practical mind, and an even more dangerous habit of convincing one that the bitter pills of his creation were nothing more than candy.

"Of course sir," she responded with a grim smile. "What do you need?" Interesting, how McGonagall would not meet her eye, or the look that on anyone else may have passed for smug on Moody's face.

"It has been brought to my attention that certain…events can no longer be contained by the present course of actions. As Minerva points out…" Dumbledore paused, interrupted by McGonagall's glare and a wheezy laugh from Moody.

"As Minerva points out, many of the students have found things…not quite right… about Harry's disappearance, the demeanor of his friends and his total absence putting a rather dark stain on the official stance that he is 'at an undisclosed location receiving auror level training.'

'Aha! We're going to step up the search and rescue! Unless… he's thought of something…a little more subtle planned…' The maddening twinkle in the old man's eye was now reminiscent of the former floating Christmas decoration. 'Oh…Bollocks.'

Seeing Tonk's dawning horror and comprehension, Dumbledore let out a sour chuckle. "A point to you, Miss Tonks, I believe you see what needs to be done. If you are willing, we'd like you to return to Hogwarts after Christmas break, in Harry's stead. Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger will be brought to speed, and will no doubt aid in this rather unique situation."

If not for the quiet urgency and subtle hint of desperation that hovered just beneath the headmaster' s persona, Tonks may very well have laughed in his face, a belly splitting roar at the absurdity of the plan. How she was supposed to in a single week, become a near perfect clone of the wizarding world's most scrutinized individual, was all but impossible. As things were, she could only stand motionless, slack-jawed, staring back at the three uneasy wizards before her.

Almost mercifully, a harsh crack came from the end of the hallway. Her first instinct was an apparition, though a moment later she ruled it out as an impossibility as her senses returned and she recalled the vast protections on the ancient home. As the four instantly turned towards the sound – Moody, Tonks and McGonagall pulling out their wands, Dumbledore absurdly calm – a muffled curse could be heard, followed by a loud crash. Grimacing at her natural reaction to flinch, Tonks followed the three out the door, their bulk hiding the intruder from view.

"Who is – POTTER! What in Merlin's balls is going on!" Moody gasped, before scowling at his own sign of surprise. Tonks, however, missed the opportunity to gloat, the shock of what he had said dominating her thoughts.

A wheezing laugh, a dark cackle filled the air. "Good evening professor…professor, Moody. I guess you won't need Tonks after all." As Tonks wormed into a space between Dumbledore and Moody, she caught sight of the elusive charge and found herself paralyzed between laughing and crying. With a slight wave as a greeting, he hunched over, and with a grimace, collapsed to the ground, for all appearances unconscious.

Tonks ignored the sudden furor that erupted all around her. Moody had suddenly disappeared, presumably to call a meeting or Pomphrey, possibly both. She herself could do nothing but gape at the bruised and broken mass before her.

Harry was hunched over, his legs curled into his belly. He looked painfully thin, far beyond anything she'd ever seen him before. His hair was matted, a mess filled with dirt and sweat, more than likely blood as well. His face was covered in bruises, his glasses almost absurdly were still intact, though lopsided, allowing a swelling eye to protrude from above the lens.

The rest of him was mercifully covered in a robe, though its condition did nothing to allow hope that his body had been spared the brutality taken against his face. Streaks of brown marred with dark red ran down the grey cloth, patches missing revealed bruises underneath. The robe was frayed and far too short, even if it hung loosely on his boney form.

It was only then that Tonks noticed the second figure, kneeling in the corner of the room, soft sobs emitting from an obviously female figure. Her robes were free of any obvious signs of bloodletting, though they too were covered with patches of grime. Her head was down, her face hidden between her arms, and truly the only sign of any physical damage was the obvious hack job that had been done to her hair. Nonetheless, the girl had obviously endured much, and perhaps she could provide some answers as to Harry's condition.

Moving with slow, careful steps, Tonks approached the sobbing woman. Softly, almost whispering, she asked, "Miss, can you talk to me? I'm here to help you."

Tonks had to fight the instinct to jump back, such was her shock when the woman raised her head. Even in the grimy clothes and dirty, hacked hair, the face held an unparalleled beauty, shining blue eyes resting above an elegant nose, high cheekbones that were reminiscent of the golden days of aristocracy – only one person had that face that Tonks knew – Fleur.

"Tonks, it is you, vraiment?" Fleur whispered.

Tonks nodded, fighting to keep her own hands from shaking. Suddenly, she was holding a trembling Fleur, sobbing every more hysterically in her embrace. "Mon Deiu, Tonks, c'etait horrible. Tu… you cannot imagine. The things they did to him…against him… Suddenly Fleur raised her eyes to Tonk's own, the fear in them suddenly being forced out by renewed determination. " 'e beat them Tonks. It was…I have never seen anyzing like it. 'Arry, he truly is a champion, non?"

Swallowing hard, Tonks nodded, "He certainly is…" Loud noises were coming again down the hall, followed by the imposing figure of Madam Pomphrey. "He's going to be all right, gonna get you two looked at." Tonks replied dumbly. Fleur nodded, before falling limply to the floor, exhausted. As she was brushed out of the room, Tonks marched grimfaced into the living room of Grimmauld Place, and just after she sat down, the fireplace flashed, and all hell broke loose…

Albus Dumbledore looked around the room, taking in every detail of those around him. His own chair faced the fireplace, allowing him to maintain a commanding presence in the room without being interrupted by any unexpected visitor. To his right, Minerva sat, birdlike, perched on the edge of the overstuffed couch. Next to her were Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones, both with baggy eyes that spoke of too many nights of covert operations and not nearly enough sleep. Remus' favorite chair was abandoned; the werewolf was brooding, walking in impatient circles and every so often stealing a glance towards the door, searching in vain for a sign of Harry. Severus was doing his best to appear nonchalant; the only outward sign of his general unease was the complete lack of snark directed toward the other inhabitants of the room.

To his left, the other half of the present Order were bunched together, all roused from the wee hours of the morning from the pandemonium that had gripped headquarters. Hermione was standing to the side with Tonks, attempting every so often to discover what that older witch had seen, who in turn seemed to be very tightlipped on the subject. The Weasley's – all save the two eldest sons, were huddled together, Ginerva and Ronald both fighting fatigue with their concern for Harry. Molly was speaking in hushed tones, attempting in vain to maintain a sense of calm within her domain.

Bill stood off to the side, half hidden by the shadows of the room, his body radiating terror and relief in the recovery of his fiancée, and whatever ordeal she had just survived. In a perverse sense, Dumbledore mused, the scene was almost warm – a perfect family gathering at Christmas, if not for the strong current of horror that permeated the room.

"Remus, I am sure Poppy will be with us shortly, and I have no doubts that Harry will come through this ordeal." Remus turned sharply towards the headmaster, anger flaring in his eyes before calming down and giving the headmaster a short nod. "Everyone, as you have no doubt ascertained, young Harry and Ms. Delacour have been returned to us this evening. This, I fear", his tight smile turning grim, "is the extent of tonight's good news."

Ignoring the rising tensions in the room, Dumbledore continued. "Both Mr. Potter and Ms. Delacour endured severe injuries, and we know nothing of where they have been, nor how long their recovery will take." Dumbledore turned slowly, turning to face the now openly weeping children. "I trust you will all be a great aid to both Mr. Potter and Ms. Delacour and that you will show them the gentleness and friendship that they can depend on you for, as well as to be considerate to their desire for privacy. We must all, I fear, tread gently in the coming days and weeks."

Hermione managed to nod in response; the others were far too gone to make a coherent reply. Returning her nod, Dumbledore turned to the rest of the Order. "Madam Pomphrey will be down soon, and while all of you no doubt are concerned about the well being of our patients, perhaps it would be more efficient if there were fewer of us when Poppy brings her diagnosis."

The unspoken order was quickly followed – Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance took their leave after hasty goodbyes, and Mrs. Weasley ushered the children upstairs, despite the protestations from all of them. Only assurances to be allowed to see Harry at the soonest possible time mollified them at all, but within five minutes the room was slightly less crowded.

Soon, it turned out, was roughly three hours later, when a thoroughly worn out Madame Pomphrey emerged into the living room, immediately bombarded with questions from the anxious gathering. "Silence!" Dumbledore shouted, his calm voice nonetheless carrying a sense of volume. "Poppy, if you will…"

"Yes, quite." She took a deep breath. "Let me first assure you all that neither patient is grievously wounded, and while both have sustained quite an attack, particularly Mr. Potter, both should fully recover physically within a week with ample medical treatment. The damage is not extensive, and mostly superficial – though unquestionably painful. Psychologically, they may take more time, though we won't know until they are conscious enough to give us some idea of their experience."

A low growl from Remus led to a glare by the solemn healer, though she merely nodded and continued her diagnosis. "Mr. Potter has borne the brunt of the assault, and appears to have been starved or kept near starvation for some time – that will be by far the most damaging part of his treatment. His body is covered in bruises and scars – a cursory test dating many of them to the beginning of the summer break, since his disappearance."

She took a deep breath, bracing herself before continuing. "On a positive note, the older scars are no longer a problem, and it appears that throughout the summer, he has been subject to a number of rudimentary healing charms – only the recent damage is troubling, and we can cure that, no question. Ms. Delacour, despite the state of her appearance appears to be doing fine. There will be no long term physical damage, and she retained consciousness up until I gave her a sleeping draught.

"Bollocks!" Tonks blurted, ignoring the shocked stares suddenly aimed in her direction. Flushing as the realization of what she had said and in front of whom, she nonetheless continued. "I saw the pair of them, there's no way Harry will be right as rain in a week's time."

Ignoring the less than formal word choice, Madame Pomphrey let out a sigh, "No, Miss Tonks, he will not be, as you say, 'right as rain'. He will need a strong dose of nutritional supplement potions for a long time into the foreseeable future, and may very well need significant aid overcoming any mental trauma he has faced in the past months. Physically however, the majority of his physical wounds can be healed quickly, and given the state of affairs in the past few months, I'll take comfort wherever I can."

Tonks nodded, suitably mollified for the time being, and Remus excused himself, bolting up the stairs towards Harry's room. Madame Pomphrey made no attempt to stop him, and with a final exhale, Dumbledore bid everyone a night, the room slowly filtering out as all attempted to salvage a night's sleep.

It was a very hectic three days for the inhabitants of 12 Grimmauld. Harry had been in and out of consciousness, stealing quick comforts from his friends between bouts of restless sleep. Everyone it seemed was walking on eggshells, both around Harry and one another. Tensions were obviously high when, three days later Dumbledore summoned a condensed Order meeting, the children included. The whispers and rumors hadn't died down a second before Harry, leaning heavily upon Dumbledore but nonetheless standing, moved into the room. A collective hush settled upon the occupants, heads turning towards the shuffling boy.

Hiding a pained grimace behind a ghostly grin, Harry responded with a weak hello, before falling into the couch beside an already seated Fleur. While the others waited with baited breath, it did not go unnoticed by Dumbledore how the two sat, knees turned slightly towards the other, a fraction closer than normal personal space would have dictated. 'Most Interesting'

"So", Harry began, his voice weak yet full of a tired mirth. "I suppose you're all wondering what we've been up to." Immediately the room was filled with questions, a chaotic roar of inquiry. Again, Dumbledore quieted the masses, before once again turning to Harry. "Thank you headmaster. The noise…I think it's a bit much for both of us."

Suddenly, the room was filled with guilt-stricken looks of sympathy towards Harry, and apology for the once again looked over French witch. Suddenly, the was a slight sense of unease in the room, and again, Dumbledore noticed the subtle signs coming from Harry, and wondered if perhaps unsettling the room before his narrative had been his deliberate intention."

When the room quieted down, Harry began his story. "As the Headmaster is so fond of pointing out, the best place to begin a story is from the beginning…"


	2. Chapter 1

I don't remember much of what happened after the Department of Mysteries. Being possessed by Voldemort and then grieving Sirius – it didn't leave much time for anything else. This chaos however, very well turned out to be my saving grace, as even the most skilled Legilimens would have had a hard time sorting through the mess in my mind and discovering just what I'd done.

Honestly, I have no idea why I did it. It was just one of those things in the heat of battle, right after I hit Bella – Lestrange – with the… with the curse. For a second, I had her, really truly had her, and she let out a pained shriek, her right hand spasmed, and in an instant, unnoticed by anyone but myself, her wand rolled across the atrium floor, stopping just in front of me.

I'd like to say I took it as a memento, some perverse artifact to link me to my godfather. Pretend that there was something good in my motivations, but that would be a lie. As I said, I didn't think, just reacted – and in an instant the wand was off the floor and jammed into my front pocket.

Odd, how clear that instant is, followed by the blur of suffering that followed. Bellatrix recovered soon enough, and then disappeared just as my battle with Voldemort began. Dumbledore saved me, and the next time I can recall with any detail was that time in the headmaster's office.

I wanted to hate Dumbledore. Truly, I don't think anyone can understand just how much rage and anger I held against him. Even when I returned to Privet Drive, my desire to hurt him, to see him suffer the pain that I was feeling – it was like earlier that year, except it wasn't Voldemort's emotions fueling it – they were all mine.

But truthfully, I couldn't do it. Not without looking at everything else in my life, and if anything, I turned that anger inward. The headmaster has never been perfect, but much of what I blamed him for…well at best I could accuse him of naivety and foolishness, but compared to my own…eagerness to please, the arrogance that allowed me to believe I could storm the ministry and suffer no foul…I found it impossible to hate him without hating myself, and as he's so often told me, that is never a road worth traveling.

That's not to say that the anger diminished, or that my trust hadn't been irreversibly shattered. I spent the better part of two weeks rummaging through my school trunk, going over years' worth of material, practicing wand movements with a twig…really, looking back it would be amusing if it weren't so pathetic. It was soon painfully obvious that not only had I taken the easiest possible course load, but I was mediocre at even that.

I've always dreamed of leaving Privet Drive over the summer – some daring escape, reminiscent to second year. I couldn't fight this war like I had been – a school curriculum isn't designed to transform children into killers, and after that discussion in the headmaster's office, it was clear that that's what I needed to become.

But now – now I had a method of escape, and for the first time since the ministry, I pulled out Bella – Lestrange's – wand from its hiding place underneath my winter clothes. Twelve and three quarters inches, exactly. The first thing I did was measure the thing – no idea why, though Ollivander seems to hold length in high esteem… wand envy, maybe it's just a wizard thing.

I had no idea what wood it was, what core it had – but really, those are superficial things. I knew this wand had killed, time and time again for more years than I had lived, and its former owner had no doubt enjoyed every one of them. This wand had tortured into insanity the parents of one of my dorm mates, and the very last spell, the last act of this wand, was to kill the last remaining person I considered family.

Really, I must have been mad to hold it so fondly.

I'll be the first to admit I couldn't have been in my right mind, but suddenly, this wand provided me with two things I rarely have. Hope. Opportunity. This wand could not be traced, I could do magic, outside of Hogwarts, not a soul the wiser.

And so the third week, I stopped studying those damned silly spells that turned gerbils into tea cups or made hair purple. I organized my escape, away from this madness, until I had a fighting change of surviving.

As far as great escapes go, it was rather anticlimactic. I really wasn't that stable at the time, but that only aided me. There was no hesitancy, no fear that I might be expelled. I simply took my wands, put on the invisibility cloak and then shrunk my broom. Nothing else was of any consequence, though I did knick a few twenty pound notes from Dudley. And so with a notice-me-not charm on top of already being invisible, I simply snuck into the back of Vernon's car just before he left for work.

Out in broad daylight, funny how plans in practice differ from theory. I had all sorts of grandiose schemes, blasting my way out with Death Eaters on my trail, or sneaking out in the middle of the night, trying valiantly to throw the Order off my scent. More than one of my plans involved seducing Tonks into aiding me, and I'd like to imagine that the primary factor against that would have been knowing which days she was on guard duty, and not that I'm an adolescent male with no clue about girls my own age, let alone an older woman…

Lost in such thoughts, it was a quick hour later that we arrived at Grunnings, not too far out from London proper. Not that I really knew what London proper was, as I've only ever seen the magical elements and King's Cross, but I'd taken an old road map that was stuffed in a neglected corner of Dudley's other room, and I was working on the assumption that London London was the area crammed full of 'places of interest', and not the dreary grey blob that we were currently parked in.

Vernon got out and went to work, and I followed a bit later, though heading in the opposite direction than the office complex. Which led to my second trial of the day, and one that revealed another painfully obvious truth about my level of ignorance to the world around me.

My experiences in the muggle world were really quite minimal, and it was shameful just how much I assumed the real world would be similar to the films Dudley was always watching. In reality, one doesn't simply wave their arm, and then hop into the cab that swerves gracefully up to the curb. Cab drivers seem to be hesitant to pick up scraggly looking teenage males waving hysterically. The notice-me-not charm probably didn't help matters.

When I finally did get a cab, it took the driver all of ten seconds to decide I was an idiot. I was obviously English, so the 'stupid tourist' concept wasn't an option; I was simply stupid. Can't really blame him for thinking that – first I answered his question of destination with "Err…London please?" and then after a raised eyebrow and a not so subtle prompt as to where exactly in the city sprawl I wanted to go, I pulled out a yellowed map dated to 1970, before crumpling it up and stammering out, "King's Cross". And to think for years I've laughed in silent amusement at Mr. Weasley.

I did eventually get to King's Cross, and even though I later discovered that the cabbie had charged me far and above the going rate, I was in London, hopefully my absence undetected, and if I lost a few extra quid in the process…well it had all been Dudley's to begin with. So with no further ado, I started walking, heading towards Grimmauld Place.

I suppose after making a complete fool out of myself in the cab, I deserved a little bit of true inspiration. Bella's…Lestrange's…well, now it's my wand… came in handy once again. I couldn't exactly ask directions to an invisible house, but I remembered the Point Me spell from fourth year, and there was not a lick of magic protecting ten Grimmauld Place from magical detection, so off I went, trying not to look conspicuous with a wooden rod in my hand. Thankfully it's a common affliction to muggles and wizards alike to only notice what they want to see.

Point Me didn't show me the fastest way to my destination, only the general direction, and it was the better part of an hour wandering through an increasingly dreary London that I finally recognized the row of old homes that held my final stop. After a deep breath, I focused on Headquarters, and was relieved to see it when the house did in fact appear. I was not mad – at least not entirely.

The door gave away instantly, and my senses went haywire, straining to hear any possible noise that might signify an intruder. All was quiet, and forcing down a lump in my throat, I moved slowly forward, wand at the ready and cloak back in place.

No one was there. Everything was dead – a fact personified when I found Kreacher's body, decapitated. Honestly, I couldn't even muster the energy to cheer – I simply didn't care. Later, I found out that there is a clause within the Contract of Servitude to the Black family that requires a treasonous house elf to take his own life. For all the denial from both sides of the family, Sirius was a Black, and the contract held. At the time… at the time I was just relieved, that I wouldn't have to take such action myself.

Truthfully, I have no idea why I went to Grimmauld Place. I hated the home when Sirius was alive, and loathed it more now that he was dead. I think a part of me knew it would be the last place the order would look for a runaway, and none of them would want to be back here anytime soon. It was also free lodging, which until I had a better idea of where I was going, was certainly a perk.

I found myself in Sirius' room, suddenly immersed in a frantic search for something, anything, that would be a link between the two of us, something tangible to remember him by, other than my own memories – they just didn't seem enough somehow. My memories of him were solely as a prisoner, first an escapee from Azkaban, and then under house arrest. For someone who was once so full of life…it just didn't seem right. Like I was holding something stale and dead – which I suppose in a way, he now was.

I don't know what I was looking for. I had a desperate hope, that maybe he'd written a final letter, a Dear Harry, if you're reading this, then it means I died saving you… Real life doesn't work that way, I realize that now. Sirius I have no doubt would have risked his life a thousand times over to save mine, but he wouldn't contemplate the concept that he could die. Even after all the world had thrown at him, he was always resilient, always confident in his own ability to survive.

In a lot of ways, we're really quite similar.

I spent the day there, going down once in the evening to scavenge from whatever was left in the kitchen. Ten minutes and a bit of bread and cheese later, I was back in Sirius' room, mentally and emotionally exhausted.

I obviously fell asleep, as my next memory was a blinding beam of sunlight crashing across my face. I lay there for a long time, thinking about what I'd do next. I needed to get out, train, find some way to come through this war alive, though the jolt of Sirius' memory was both a source of inspiration and depression. Sirius knew more about magic and life than I certainly did, and he was dead, as were most of the more competent wizards and witches of his generation, or at least those that weren't out to get me.

On that cheery thought, I gathered the small pile of Sirius's things that I'd decided to take with me. It was a shabby lot – a penknife similar to that which I'd broken in the Department of Mysteries, a slightly worn cloak that had the sole advantage of being both wizarding and at the same time not Hogwarts dress, and after a pained look at my taped up trainers, a pair of what appeared to be genuine dragon hide boots. Sirius could have pulled the look off, I just felt out of place.

'Right Harry, time to think.' Either Dumbledore – and consequently the Order – knew I was missing, or they were still clueless. Either way, traipsing around Diagon Alley was both reckless and stupid, and if Dumbledore trusted me enough to mind my guardians and stay safe enough that whatever guard I had was lax enough to allow a daytime escape, he certainly wouldn't any longer if he caught me unattended in the middle of Wizarding England.

So money was tight, and I had no knowledge of wizarding Britain outside of about four isolated points throughout the U.K. Brilliant. Even after the cab, I had about sixty pounds left, and with a working wand and invisibility cloak, I could make that stretch for some time, provided I didn't mind doing a few things I shouldn't. Funny, how being the target of a psychotic madman tends to shift the boundaries of right and wrong.

Muggle it was then, and ideally, somewhere outside of Britain. I needed contact with the magical world to get what I needed, and doing so discreetly in England simply wasn't possible. Unfortunately, my knowledge of geography growing up was generally restricted to a cupboard, and I've never left the country since then. Hermione would know what to do, and I would bet she could probably get by alright – she seemed to be able to manage a conversation or two with Beauxbaton witches from time to time during the tournament – of course, I had no way of judging her fluency, but that's the way the bludgers fly.

Nothing for it, a bit of old fashioned Gryffindor bravery with an equal part Gryffindor blind luck and foolishness. At least my total ignorance of muggle culture would look less conspicuous in a foreign country, or that was my logic. In for the knut, in for the galleon. Five minutes later, I had taken a satchel from the closet, stuffed in some clothes that looked like they might fit at a stretch, and left Grimmauld Place, no final destination yet, but the Black family home, the Order of the Phoenix, even Voldemort himself be damned, I was not staying here to die.

Harry let out a breath of air, finishing in a rush "Even as I realized what was going on, there was nothing I could do. I'd been immobilized, you see. Locked in a full body bind…" Harry sighed, not meeting the headmaster's eyes as he finished his finely rehearsed story.

"You'll forgive me Harry, if I find this turn of events shocking."

Harry continued to look at his hands, giving the impression of embarrassment and humiliation. "Yes sir, and looking back, I can see just how careless I was." A sense of resolve seemed to fill him, and he turned his gaze up to meet the headmaster's. "In all fairness sir, I didn't know that it wasn't Uncle Vernon who took me out for a day in London, but a Polyjuiced death eater."

"Constant Vigilance lad! Time and time again I've told you, and after your fourth year, I'da thought you'd be on the lookout for people who weren't what they claim to be."

Harry turned red, his still wounded body taken second place to his supposedly battered pride. "I know I should have been paying attention! Look at me…I know it's no excuse," his breath hitched, and he suppressed a grimace as his movements jarred his fragile body. "But…I wasn't thinking straight, Sirius had just died, and when the Vernon look-alike said he wanted me out the house to give Dudley and Petunia some time without my 'bloody boo-hooing' I just went along with him."

Harry took a deep breath, and for a moment he feared that the headmaster would sense the trace of deceit in his voice. That moment, a soothing hand brushing against his upper leg. Turning to give Fleur a grateful smile, he took another breath, looking slowly around the room, observing the effects of the tale he'd spun. Everyone seemed to be speechless, the only sound for a moment a whispered 'Oh, Harry" from Hermione.

The moment was broken by a cough from Dumbledore. "Harry, I realize this is hard for you, and no one is placing blame, save for on those who put you through this torment. Are you able to go on, or perhaps we should let it rest for the evening."

A shuddering sigh, and Harry turned back to the Headmaster. "I'm fine, sir – really. As I was saying, I think my kidnapping was possible because technically, I left willingly, and anything anyone would have seen would be me leaving peacefully with my uncle. An odd sight perhaps, but not impossible." Harry finished with a rueful chuckle.

"Harry… back to the…Department of Mysteries for a moment. Do you have any idea whose wand you took?" Dumbledore asked, his curiosity as to the rest of Harry's ordeal at odds with the puzzle pieces already laid before him. "Any idea at all?"

Harry shrugged, followed by a shake of his head. "No idea sir, there were lots of people there that night, and I can't remember any of it very well. I assumed that it was a death eater's once I was captured, but I suppose it could be a ministry employee acting out on his own. All I gathered was it was through the wand that they were able to track me to Privet Drive, and it's wasn't long after that they took it from me – I haven't seen it since."

Dumbledore nodded, gesturing for Harry to continue his tale. "So the next morning, we left wherever it was in London we were staying, and left Britain entirely." Harry let out a mirthless chuckle. "My first time to a foreign country, and I was doing it tied up and bound under my own invisibility cloak in a muggle vehicle. It was only days later, when I finally got a glimpse outside, did I have any clue where we were – right in the middle of Germany."


	3. Chapter 2

The twins would never speak to me again if they knew just why I went to Germany, as it was largely in thanks to their more wild stories that gave me the idea in the first place. Listen to Fred and George for ten minutes, and Germany is a paradise for every thief, drunkard, scoundrel and all round mischief maker in the magical world, a place filled with nothing but busty bar wenches and never ending glasses of homebrew that would make a giant cough twice before taking another pint.

Sirius, in one of the few times we'd ever had a real conversation, had been a little more realistic, though that's really not saying much. Apparently, in the summer between sixth and seventh year, the Marauder's had spent a week in Hamburg, and had by all accounts a rather wild time, including a bar fight with a vampire if Sirius was to be believed. Peter fainted in a brothel, and Remus pulled me aside later and let me know that Sirius, eager to please as he was, had downed a full pint of a rather questionable growth potion beforehand, only to find himself still flying full mast six very painful hours later. Good times, I'm sure.

With such stories in mind, I stumbled out into Berlin around midnight two days after leaving London. Magic aside, without drawing far too much attention to myself, I was forced to go muggle a fair bit of the time – crowded train stations aren't the safest place to be utterly invisible, and no spell work was going to magnificently clear my path without bringing local magical law enforcement into the area. It's the little rules that you have to follow.

So there I was, almost bankrupt and god knows how many miles from home. Taking a deep breath, I came to two very, very horrible revelations.

First, I had no idea how to find the local magical district and more importantly, the Order would be expecting my three day note any time now. Flying by the seat of your pants always has drawbacks. Fuck.

Nothing to be done for it, and I came to the conclusion that if the Order wasn't already on my tail, they weren't going to find me before morning, so a good night's sleep was in order, instead of being crammed in a third class seat for far too many hours than was healthy. I found a cheap hotel quickly enough, snuck past the night clerk and opened up an unoccupied room. Not glamorous, but a damn sight better than what I'm used to, so who am I to complain?

It wasn't until much later that I realized just how organized the German magical underground was. At the time, I still in my arrogance thought that I just had a knack of finding what I was looking for. Germany, unlike the rest of Europe, doesn't actually have a real full-time magical community. Centuries of muggle and wizarding wars as well as the rise of Grindelwald and the muggle Cold War have left wizards thin on the ground here. Legally, the entire region, minus the core of Prussia, is part of Austria-Hungary.

That however, is solely on paper – the Austrian's turn a blind eye to what really happens in Germany, and in return the local bigwigs make sure the government gets a cut out of the business profits. Everyone wins.

The latest muggle tensions ended a few years ago, and with it came a downtime for magical business in the area. For half a century, wizards willing to dirty their hands in muggle affairs had made a tidy profit smuggling goods and people between East and West Germany, and as the business has all but disappeared, so did a number of the local opportunists. In short, it was nowhere as glamorous as the twins make it out to be, and not quite as wild as Sirius liked to tell, but there was nonetheless a current of organized chaos that would have warmed the hearts of all three in question, and served perfectly for my purposes.

As to how I found it…rather, it found me. As I've said, most areas still in business were of negotiable reputation, and there wasn't simply a friendly barkeep willing to put his name on the line to let you into the German equivalent of Diagon Alley. Rather the magic sensed you, your intent. Like a city size room of requirement. It didn't create anything new, but rather led you where you wanted to go. It was still a pain in the ass, but at the time, I was very, very impressed with myself after only three hours of walking through Berlin, I stumbled down a quiet alley, to suddenly find myself staring at a smaller version of the London's Gringott Branch.

I won't bore you with the details of what amounted to a bank withdrawal. Needless to say, I got myself enough gold to keep myself comfortable for a few weeks, and once assured that my business was and always had been strictly confidential, left Gringotts feeling absurdly proud of myself. Harry Potter, boy-who-can-run-basic-errands.

The road was far less crowded than Diagon Alley; hell, it wouldn't have stood out in Hogsmeade. One of the shop keepers, once I'd doshed out ten galleons for a guidebook, let me know free of charge that the city's enchantments only allowed access to any one "block" at a time. I needed to leave, think about what I wanted, and I'd go to the most appropriate point, provided I didn't have a specific destination in mind. Annoying and time consuming as hell, but it did wonders for security.

… In all fairness that isn't entirely true. At the time, it was one of the most amazing things I'd ever experienced. Walk to the end of the alley and flash back in muggle Berlin. Pause for a moment, think about quidditch and step back into the alley, flash a brand new selection of stores, including one stocked full of non regulation brooms. I won't be trading in my Firebolt any time soon, but a broom that sends out a destabilization and turbulence jinx to anything that gets within fifty yards? Very, very cool.

I'll confess that I played that trick a few times, idly picking things from the top of my head just to see where it would take me. Eventually, I picked up a few things that would be useful, clothes that fit for instance, and a trunk for my now not entirely miniscule collection of things. Plain wooden trunk, none of the hundred galleon monstrosities that promise they'll hold the moon and still have enough extra space for a private garden. This place is the filled with shady figures for a reason, and they're all looking for the idiots with more money than brains.

That was more than enough shopping than I could handle in one go, and really, just walking around the muggle city was more than enough of a marvel. I've never really seen anything in England, and it was marvelous to simply be able to walk where I pleased, aimlessly traveling down crowded boulevards through the chilly afternoon. Fantastic.

The guidebook I'd purchased was fairly minimal, though I suppose you can't just hand over a few galleons and expect a fully detailed list of all the shady dealings going on in the city. It did however, provide directions to the scores of entrances into the magical community, and it was then that I realized the foolishness of my original pride – even a wizard of Crabbe or Goyle's intellect would have soon enough found what they wanted. So at around seven that evening, and picturing a tavern resembling the Leaky Cauldron, I walked into Berlin Hauptbahn-something-or-other and entered an out-of-order bathroom stall, appearing an instant later not fifty yards from a bight lit pub: Der Zahn Des Wolfs. Wolf something or other – I should have brought Remus.

Looking back, the night was rather funny, in a shit-your-pants sort of way. I'll say this though, any concepts I still held of being the tragic hero died that evening, and what Cedric and Sirius' deaths hadn't forced me to realize came rushing into the foreground with all the grace of a rampaging Hippogriff. And relying on luck or friendship or anything else but my own wand flew right out the window, perhaps on the aforementioned hippogriff.

For the moment, I was still looking forward to my little runaway, and the inside of the pub was rowdy and rambunctious, a happy chaos that couldn't help but bring a great grin to my face. Forget the twins, Ron was going to be pissed he'd missed this. I shuffled through the crowd, looking not too out of place in Sirius' cloak, and took a seat in the closest booth, back to the door. I may not talk tough with Dean and Seamus in the dorm room, but I can appreciate a nice rack as well as the next bloke, and the waitress who moved amongst the leering patrons left little to the imagination. Like I said, Ron was going to go ape that he'd been left out.

One fantastic steak pie and a forced first ever pint of real ale later, and I was ready to take on the world, what Hermione calls my 'saving people thing'. Heh, irony's a bitch. There I was content and full, when a group of wizards sat down in the booth behind mine. I didn't do anything at first, but the conversation was too…hushed – one of them had a voice that even in whispers seems to drown out the rest of the noise in the room. Another perk, they spoke English.

After swearing at my own shortsightedness to seat myself in such an awkward manner, I ordered a butter beer, which only showed how little I'd learnt from my previous mistake of sitting with my back to the entrance. Espionage – it's something you learn as you go, if it doesn't kill you first.

I must have sat there for well over three hours, trying to make out snippets of their conversation. They didn't use privacy charms, but among the din it wasn't easy to hear what was being said anyway. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't what you'd call polite conversation, and the loud whisperer, most commonly referred to by his comrades as 'asshole' seemed to have gotten them into trouble with what passed for the local authorities.

Finally, long since bored with spying for the sake of spying, the group mercifully stood up to leave, and I peeked around the booth, counting four cloaked figures walking out the entrance, the shortest taking a moment to not so subtly grope the buxom waitress's bum, earning him a hiss and jerked headshakes from his companions. Call me presumptions, but I'm guessing that was 'asshole'.

And again, I reveal just how magnificently stupid, just how remarkably naïve I well and truly was. Never mind my poor seating choice or ordering a butter beer in a real bar. No, what almost got me killed was not what I did, but what I didn't do. Had I spent those hours leering at the waitress or pretending to get sloshed, or even gone up to the bar and joined the chaos, I would have gotten away clear. As it was, I spent almost three hours sitting alone in a booth, occasionally ordering the beverage of choice for teenage witches everywhere. Really, I'm impressed that I actually waited those five minutes before following them out.

Five minutes later, and out I went, taking in a deep breath of the crisp evening air and planning to sneak into another hotel when I hear a shuffle from behind.

It was that shuffle that probably saved my life, I was turning towards the noise when what felt like an oversized bludger came down across my left shoulder with a sickening crack. I let out a pained cry – a feeble shriek before I was pushed back – stumbling into the shrouded corner of the tavern, away from any watching eyes. I fought for breath, head spinning as my back hit upon the stone wall behind me, taking in a ragged breath before turning an eye towards my attackers,

Asshole and a friend, the other two were out of sight, though whether they'd left or were lurking behind, I had no idea. "Who are you boy?" The taller one, 'friend', whispered. "What the hell were you doing in there, listening in on a private conversation." Ah..anger, definite anger there.

Trying to hide my trembling, I let out a yell, tried to charge past the pair of them. I failed, miserably, and found myself in a grapple with Asshole, fat clammy hands clawing at my face, while the other one tried to grab me from behind.

"You're finished kid, you shouldn't have done that," Asshole growled, grabbing my left wrist in one hand, wrenching it away. "Not gonna go easy on you now." I laughed, nothing suave, just a reaction to keep from falling apart completely. My left arm burned, Asshole's treatment doing nothing to sooth the already burning sensations that were traveling through it. As I felt another pair of arms, bonier than Asshole's, but just as strong, I thrust my free arm into my cloak, pulled out Bella's wand and while attempting to keep my voice level, bellowed, "Reducto".

Asshole let out a wheezy splutter, and for a moment his grip loosened, before he turned on me with a burning rage. "You're dead kid, you've got to be an idiot if you'd attack another person with a spell like that, but you're a dead idiot now." Did I say he was angry before? No he wasn't, because now – that was anger in its purest form, and I was on the short end of the stick.

He let go of my left hand, immediately grabbing me by the throat with both hands, and with a look towards his accomplice behind me, slammed me once again up against the wall.

I'm still horrified of what happened next, and the only comfort I can take is that I truly didn't want to do what I did, it was an accident, really. Still, McGonagall always says that magic primarily acts upon intent, and it was certainly my goal to get out of that forsaken alley the quickest way possible.

So physically, in an act of self defense, my natural reaction was to flail my wand arm towards my attacker. I did not anticipate the sickening yellow slash that came from the wand, nor did I plan the bright flash of orange light that seemed to explode from the contact between my wand and my assailant's ear. I had no prior knowledge of the nauseating smell that followed – like a rotten egg that was then doused in chlorine, to be quickly replaced with the metallic smell of fresh blood.

I closed my eyes, tight, not opening them until several moments later, when I felt the hands go slack around my neck. When I did, I jumped back, banged my head on the wall, before stumbling forward, away from…away from that.

I didn't make in ten feet before I fell to my knees, my whole body convulsing as I threw up everything I had consumed in the last two days, and more besides. I actually looked back over my shoulder, taking in the horrifying scene before me, as if needing to confirm that such an atrocity had taken place.

Asshole lay on the ground, as if groveling on all fours, though his cloak now had a shine to it, the weak moon shimmering off the ever increasing puddle of blood collecting in the corner of the alley. His head was non existence, a mess of flesh, indistinguishable in detail. From a distance, I couldn't tell, but when I'd first fled, it had been impossible not to notice that chunks of flesh had been clearly ripped from his arms, and I realized that through the ordeal, I had somehow ignored the mist of red droplets that covered my glasses.

Fighting down the urge to heave once more, I grabbed my glasses, furiously rubbing them on my cloak. Putting them back on, I spared a look at the 'friend', his limbs hanging at awkward, impossible angles, even if his body was thankfully in one piece, slumped against the wall.

It was too much, really too much, and I found myself again upon my knees, retching uncontrollably, before fleeing the alley, pausing only to put on my invisibility cloak over my body before returning to the muggle city. It was one of the only two rational actions I took for the remainder of the evening, the other being to carefully, almost tenderly, wipe the blood from Bella's…my wand before slowly returning it to my front pocket.

"Bad enough, to be chained to a chair for days on end. But then to be forced to watch, helplessly…to watch what they did…I've no idea what they did with the bodies."

Harry paused, clearly unable to continue, collapsing wearily into the couch. The room was silent, before Ginny let out a harsh sob, moving across the room and slamming herself into the weary boy.

"Oh, Harry…I'm so sorry you had to go through that," she sniffed into his shirt. "You're so brave…"

Harry, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of events, pushed the girl gently off him. "Err…thanks Ginny, I appreciate your concern." His voice turned soft. "Really, Ginny, your friendship means so much to me and…" he paused, looking up towards the other occupants of the room. "I want to thank all of you for just…for just being here for me."

Later, when all had voiced their own sympathy and support for the traumatized boy, Dumbledore spoke in his grandfatherly tone. "Harry my boy, no doubt you are exhausted enough for the evening, and we will continue tomorrow if you are able. Let me say this though, to all of you. To be forced to watch as another is murdered in cold blood…it is something I would not wish upon Voldemort himself. Harry, my boy, you must not hold yourself accountable for what other's did in your presence, especially when you had no way of preventing the atrocities you were forced to witness. Do you understand?"

With a grim smile, Harry looked up at the Headmaster, though his eyes betrayed his seriousness. "Yes sir, I understand. But sir, those two ministry employees that I saw murdered, they deserve justice…and if I ever find those responsible…I won't hesitate to bring them down."

Dumbledore nodded, his face weary. "You've experienced far too much pain for someone your age Harry, and I hope you will not ever forget the necessity of mercy and restraint." The room fell into gloomy silence, until the headmaster spoke again, his voice distinctively chipper. "I believe we have all had enough excitement for one evening. Let us call it a night, I myself fully intend to finish Nathan Grabble's From Sphinx to Swallow, a most entertaining read about the unlikely adventures a bumbling animagus. And I've just received a new order of lemon drops…"


	4. Chapter 3

It wasn't until noon that Harry left his room and headed towards the controlled chaos that inhabited the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. With a sleepy hello to Mrs. Weasley, Harry sat down between Ron, who was currently swallowing half a roast beef sandwich, and Hermione, who seemed to be spending most of her time glaring at Ron.

"Mrnn' 'Ry." Ron replied, looking much happier than he had appeared for a long time. Swallowing hard, followed by a splutter, he continued over Hermione's groan of disgust. "So, what are you up for today – I'd like to show you some of the stuff the twins have been up to, bloody brilliant they are." Harry fought not to roll his eyes, Ron's obvious attempt to please and ignore the current situation were as humorous as they were irritating.

While Harry attempted to take a more diplomatic route, offering Ron a small smile and a weak "sure", Fleur, just entering the room, appeared to be above such niceties. Her face set in an angry scowl, she brushed her long, elegant hands through her now shining but nonetheless destroyed hair, eyes flaring with irritation as the youngest Weasley came in behind her and obviously fighting to hold back a smirk at Fleur's predicament. Without missing a beat, Fluer stated offhandedly, as if ordering a cup of tea, "Chaque repas, la meme – il a les manières et le raffinement d'un porc… j'ai certainement choisi le meilleur frère."

Harry let out an amused snort, and Hermione was torn between scowling at Fleur and staring with shock at Harry's obvious comprehension. She settled on the latter, eyes wide and mouth forming a small 'o'.

Recognizing her cause for surprise, Harry let out another chuckle. "Kidnappers didn't have a telly, so Fleur and I passed the time alone by her teaching me a bit of French." A mischievous glint entered his eye, "Just think Hermione, all sorts of learning opportunities one can gain by spending six months with evil wizards."

Hermione was utterly gobsmacked, unable to do anything more than splutter incoherently for seconds, until she cuffed Harry lightly on the shoulder. "Harry…you absolute…you absolute prat." Then she burst into giggles, unable to contain her happiness to see Harry so…natural after his ordeal.

"What, what'd she say?" Moment broken, Harry turned to Ron, seeking to let his friend down softly. "Err…Fleur's just happy that Bill eats with his mouth closed." Ron paused, turning towards the french beauty before turning a bright red, creating another wave of giggles from Hermione and an angry glare from Ginny, a look which intensified when Harry and Fleur shared a small smile.

The easy conversation that followed around the table was broken once again, when Albus Dumbledore, bright blue robes still swirling from the floo network, came into the kitchen, a sense of sobriety present despite his look of genuine contentment.

"Ah, good afternoon all, Molly…ah roast beef sandwiches…and to think Minerva has the house elves convinced that a summer lunch should be nothing more than a light nibble…" The headmaster paused, taking a deep bite from one of the several remaining sandwiches, relish clear upon his face.

"Albus, we're all fine…I hope you're the same?" Harry frowned – if the Order couldn't be any more subtle, how did they hope to ever learn anything of any use? If anything, it was a credit to Dumbledore that such a group continued to survive, let alone anything else.

Dumbledore took Molly's questioning in stride. "All's well, Molly – as well as can be expected. I just dropped by to have a quick word with Mr. Potter." Dumbledore let out a chuckle, "nothing serious Molly, but we do have some things that need clearing up if Mr. Potter is to join us once again for the spring term." He turned slowly, facing Harry directly. "Mr. Potter, if I might steal a few moments of your time?

Harry nodded, slowly standing up and walking towards the headmaster, pausing only to offer his friends a reassuring smile. In silence, the pair left the room, neither speaking until they were alone in the Black master study, now completely empty of decoration thanks to the Order's attempts to play house.

"Harry my boy, as always, it seems trouble takes to following you, even in your absence." Dumbledore began with a laugh, conjuring a pair of his preferred wicker chairs in favor of the cold throne-like seat that dominated the empty room. As the pair sat down, he continued.

"In your absence, the ministry and I came to a tenuous agreement over your disappearance. In exchange for increased funding and auror participation in locating your whereabouts, the official position of your complete withdrawal from society was that you were receiving private training within the ministry, a position that I agreed to support. Naturally, your reappearance is nothing short of a happy occasion for all, but we must now decide what to do this following term, without compromising our previous…arrangements. I thought it best to seek your own consultation in private."

Harry nodded, obviously grateful of Dumbledore's tact, and impressed with the illusion he's managed to feed the wizarding populous at large. "Well sir, I certainly picked up a lot of defense theory…even if the situation was less than pleasant. If you don't mind sir, I'd like to continue Transfiguration and Charms certainly, but I'd really like private lessons with Madame Pomphrey…it would be… useful."

Harry's eyes glazed over, lost in memories of his recent adventures. His face turned to stone on the word 'useful', and Dumbledore moved to shift the conversation to a less strenuous topic.

"Transfiguration and Charms will not be a problem at all, Harry. I see no reason why you can't join your peers immediately, though I will arrange for Minerva and Filius to provide you with private tutoring – much of what they have to offer is not available on the Hogwart's syllabus, and it will be a simple matter of telling the more inquisitive minds that you are simply catching up on the school curriculum. I daresay your peers will be so delighted by your return, they will not pay the matter much attention."

Harry snorted, thinking of Malfoy taking such turns of events without outcry, but quickly became somber at Dumbledore's expression. Finally, he responded, "I can't go to defense though, I've always been in the top of my class, but I won't be able to hide that I'm not as far ahead as they'd think I should be."

Dumbledore sighed; this was where the waters muddied. "No Harry, you cannot. I will meet with you personally, and perhaps a deal can be struck with Rufus – allowing Mr. Shacklebolt or Ms. Tonks to be available for private tutoring. Turn the official story into the real one, so to speak."

Seeing Harry's look of bewilderment, Dumbledore explained, "Ah, I forget you are behind the current political landscape…forgive an old man's memory. Rufus Scrimgeour is our new minister, replacing Cornelius just before your abduction."

Harry shook his head. "No sir, I was aware of that… believe me, my captors couldn't swear about him enough. I'm just surprised is all…I know we didn't end on the best of terms, and I appreciate how you're taking this in stride…"

Dumbledore's cheery face was instantly sober, his tone one of complete seriousness. "Harry, it is times like this that we are best served forgiving the small slights and working together. I hold nothing against you for what occurred in my office, and even had I thought your behavior out of line, would certainly not hold anything against you with regards to the current situation. We both may make mistakes, but we are still on the same side, and I apologize if I've ever given you reason to think otherwise."

In that moment, Harry could not meet the Dumbledore's eye. "Y'sir…" he muttered. "I do understand…but thank you anyway…"

For the first time since Cedric's death, the silence between them was comfortable.

"So then, the issue is settled. You'll return to a majority of your classes, including private lessons in Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense, as well as special sessions with Madam Pomphrey for more advanced healing magics. Anything else?"

Harry appeared pensive. "That's it sir…though I imagine you didn't bring me in here just to go over that."

Dumbledore laughed, a genuine roar. "I daresay you've gained a much greater sense of awareness since we last met. No Harry, that is not all…No doubt we will here more about your ordeal this evening, and I understand you may be unwilling to delve into this more than necessary, but I'd like to talk to you a bit about those two murders you witnessed."

Harry cringed, an instant later his face transforming back into a blank mask. Hurriedly, Dumbledore continued. "I recognize this might be hard for you, but as you are obviously aware, your captors murdered two ministry officials, both of whom had…colorful reputations. Anything you know may be useful towards my own theories on the matter."

Seeing Harry's continued wariness, Dumbledore pulled out a glossy sheet of parchment. "Do you recognize the two Harry? Roger McDougall and Franklin Sanders, a junior auror and undersecretary to the Minister of Transportation respectively. Please Harry, I implore you, what can you tell me about their deaths?"

Closing his eyes tightly, Harry took a deep breath, removing his glasses before rubbing them furiously. Setting them back upon his face, he exhaled loudly, before looking back up at the Headmaster. "It wasn't until much later that I found out who they were. You have to understand, most of the time…the bruises and all, that was just when they were angry and frustrated. Most of the time was, strange as it may seem, simply dreadfully dull." Harry gave the headmaster a slight grin. "Funny almost, but it was just hours and hours of sitting in a cell or tied to a chair. But occasionally, they'd have visitors, and I'd catch parts of their conversations." Suddenly, Harry looked upwards, his features grim. "Sir – it appears there's a fourth side to this war, and they scare me. Worse yet, they're rational…"

Halloween, three months after the murders of Roger McDougall and Franklin Sanders…

I apparated into an alley off of Hotel de Ville in Bordeaux, France, just in time to hear the cathedral bells chime ten. Perfect. I managed to keep my balance, for some reason I always have a hell of a time staying upright during multiapparitions, and Munich, Metz, Paris, Bordeaux – all under a minute – was hard on me, especially as I've only just learned the art.

I'd been to Bordeaux a week earlier, purely to scout out the area, get an idea of what I could expect, where the wizards congregate, and those other hundreds of details that if you don't know could get you killed. I hadn't even had time to sniff around any of the local chateaus – Sirius would be rolling in his grave. He liked to say you can tell a country by its alcohol…though more often than not he said that while putting down the French, whereas I'm coming to the opinion that he was wrong on that count.

Halloween. All Hallow's Eve. The day of the dead. Something is happening here tonight, in Place Gambetta, just a short walk from where I've landed. It's a powerful place for magic, though such centers exist throughout France, courtesy of the Revolution.

Place Gambetta was where the guillotine once stood in Bordeaux, and on this night, all sorts of nasties flock to places such as this, eager to experience the magical high of having so muggle bloodletting in one place. It's more than a little disturbing, truth be told, but I've been led to believe that something is happening here tonight that concerns my longevity, so here I am, wrapped tightly in a brand new cloak, and cursing my luck that what was a warm and starlit night back in Munich was turning out to be a dreadfully wet evening here in Bordeaux. Typical.

There it was, a tiny park, hardly even a small block – nothing at all reminiscent of the horrors that had once happened here. Muggles were walking about, none the wiser, though even in the damp I could feel the cold, a kind of wet dread that clings to your skin – not at all pleasant. The magical beings stuck out like sore thumbs – they lingered far too long in a single spot, breathing deeply, the dim light of the street lanterns illuminating looks of ecstasy on their faces. There weren't many of them – Paris was a much greater attraction, and even France in general was a small fish compared to other sites of global atrocities. It's no wonder Binns doesn't teach any real history – the muggleborns would be in an uproar if they knew such glorification of muggle slaughter was still acceptable in the wizarding world, even if decreasing in popularity.

Still, my contact said this was where I needed to be, and so here I was, shivering in the air that hummed with cruelty and despair. The café across the street – the only one still open – was my target, but this pocket of evil would provide me with my next layer of disguise – I've gotten much better when it comes to being sneaky… and much worse when it comes to being moral.

So I waited, eyeing the muggle pedestrians as they walked around the city streets. Quickly, I chose my target – a tall brunette, dressed warmly yet clearly very attractive, nice shapely legs and from all appearances, one hell of a kisser. Almost enough to make me pity the bloke she was kissing… almost.

Casually, I walked towards them, eyes focused beyond the couple, moving quickly but not rushed. When I was next to them, I turned around, eyeing the muggle music selection in the store window. Without a word, I pulled out my wand, whispering as softly as possible, "Imperio."

The spell is unforgivable for a reason – when cast correctly; it's as if you've grown a second mind. You're not just controlling another person's actions, but you've gained unrestricted access to their emotions, their soul…it's an intrusion of the worst kind, and one that haunts you long after the spell is over. Even worse, for muggles, they have no memory of actually being under the spell – you can control them like puppets on the finest level, and they'll believe it was all their decision – rationalization flies out the window. There's no country in the world that won't lock you up for life if you're caught casting it, and more than a few that will have you killed outright.

Fortunately, with the waves of black magic pouring from this place for the next two hours, I've got a better chance of finding Bullstrode attractive than any ministry has of finding me.

The girl – Cecile I discovered soon enough – didn't speak more than a few words of English, but that didn't really matter. I wanted her to break off from the guy, make her excuses and get out of there alone – it's not really that difficult to put into abstract thought, if not actual words. Worst case scenario, I'd just hit him with a weak compulsion charm – I'm not up to two Unforgiveables simultaneously – bully for me.

Ten minutes later, we were seated in the café. I only spoke a few words of French, but it was enough to order a tea for me and whatever Cecile ordered for herself. Thank god for the aging potion I'd taken beforehand, I'd have a hard time looking convincing with a girl like that sharing a drink with an undersized sixteen year old. Really though, I wasn't here to talk or flirt anyway, I was here to dig up dirt on a prominent French official and get away free. Cecile was just a soundtrack, a raison d'etre, though a pleasant enough one to look at, even if I hadn't a clue as to what she was actually talking about.

Just as my contact promised, three men walked into the café around eleven, one of whom I instantly recognized from a one-sided 'meeting' a few months ago, and someone who I've been keeping a very close eye on ever since – he was in fact the reason for my visit today. Tall and a little stocky, he was impeccably dressed in a suit designed to impress, which it did – admirably. Dark hair streaked with grey, cold eyes and a hooked nose that wouldn't look out of place on a Roman bust.

Ladies and Gentleman, Monsieur Delacour, former French Ambassador to the North American Confederation, former French Minister of International Cooperation and former Junior Chair of the _Conseil International de la Sorcellerie du Monde Francophone_. Currently, disgraced head of the Alliance Royale, and potential powerbroker between the agitated merchants whose profits lie in muggle business and the remnants of France's pureblood aristocracy.

In short, a man of many hats.

My French was far from good, as I've said before – it bordered on useless. Hopefully, it wouldn't matter. His two companions were English, supposedly, and if it came down to it, I could use Cecile as a kind of primitive translator. It wouldn't be much, and her lack of English wouldn't help matters, but I ought to be able to read what she heard as a series of dreamlike images, simplistic but better than nothing. You can tell, I've played this trick before.

"Gentlemen, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr…"

"Judd. Judd and Thompson."

"D'accord…Monsieur Judd, Monsieur Thompson, a pleasure."

Ah good…English it was.

"It is not such a pleasure, Mister French. The last time we tried to arrange such a rendezvous, we were forced to flee the country, spending a most troublesome evening that involved two of our own dying in an alley like a gang of common thieves."

And to think I once thought of myself as useless as a spy. Mr. French… maybe I should go by the alias 'Scarface' next time I need a name. Still, my contact was brilliant as always. She'd been right on the money when she said Delacour had connections with those blokes from the Wolf's Tooth. I owed her, big.

"That was unfortunate…though the sudden appearance of Bellatrix Black on the continent caused quite a stir. Surely, you can understand that circumstances could not be helped."

That caused a twinge of pain deep inside, and not a little embarrassment. It wasn't Bellatrix that had suddenly come out from hiding, it had been me – I wasn't lying when I told the Order, "they tracked me through the wand." I'd used my wand between trains in Paris, and again in Antwerp. Certain groups – legal and otherwise – had picked up Bellatrix's signature and come after me, the most fortunate – Monsieur Delacour's associates - managing to trace me all the way to the Wolf's Tooth Tavern. It was only after the explosion of accidental magic combined with my control of the wand that led to my own signature fully taking over, Bella's trail dying off completely.

The real irony was, Bella had been in Germany at the time, one of the many sources that had picked up the trace. She was furious, that someone had her wand and was pretending to be her, all while she suffered Voldemort's torture for her negligence. I learned how to cover my aura pretty damn quick, though the international community didn't have a criminal record containing my individual signature, one can't be too careful. I really must the luckiest bastard out there though –if it hadn't been for Voldemort's Cruciatus session against her flesh at the time, combined with her own lack of a wand, Bellatrix would have had me dead long before I hopped out the car at Grunnings. Story for another time.

"…moving forward, it is possible that an agreement can be reached. Concentrations…within our ministry are more than sympathetic to your situation, and shakeups in the current political makeup could prove advantageous to both our sides, should a solid allegiance prove fruitful."

"It is, vraiment, a relief to hear. It is most…unsatisfying, to be cast aside as a scapegoat for a corrupt regime. Fitting perhaps, that we meet here at this time."

All three paused, looking out towards the square, and Mr. Delacour and the man to his right both repress an obvious shiver. The shortest of the trio, whose only identifying features are a bald head and his impressive muscle, showed no emotion whatsoever, merely sharing his comrade's stare into a world unknown except by the most tortured of souls. Even with my cup of tea and the pleasurable if one-sided company of Cecile, I couldn't help but repress a shiver.

The three begin talking again; it was obvious that they wouldn't stay much longer – Monsieur Delacour was talking about a party that was being hosted within the city, and invited the two Englishman to attend. I'd have given a sack of galleons to get inside that party, but the key to staying hidden is to know your limits, and nothing I could come up with on the seat of my pants was going to get me into wherever it is they were going. I'd made an important connection that night, and it was time to go before I outstayed my welcome.

I couldn't bring myself to face the three as I leave, lest my face betrayed what I'd heard. In an instant, I commanded Cecile to kiss me, soft lips crushing against mine, her hands gentle on my neck as we moved in a dance of lust out into the night air, my face hidden from my targets by a blanket of dark hair. It was almost midnight – the curse on this place broken for another year, and in a moment of weakness, I gave in to the sensations attacking my mouth, feel her tongue tease the crack between my lips. For a second, I didn't resist, enjoying the pleasurable tingles that ran down my spine, before the cold returned.

She had no idea what she was doing – not two hours ago she was kissing another man on her own will, and I felt filthy. I was no longer acting out of necessity, I took advantage, and even now it feels wrong. I pulled back sharply, and she stopped without hesitation, her eyes showing neither love nor confusion by my change of actions – she's nothing more than a living doll.

I sent her away, let her turn the corner before I removed the curse – never mind that she'd have to reconcile within herself why she told her boyfriend to go home early, only to share a drink with a complete stranger for almost two hours, at the end of which she forced her tongue down his throat. Harry Potter, a real bastard.

I spent an hour just walking around, the streets abandoned now except for the occasional crowds of drunken teenagers, reflecting on my current situation. When I had left England, I had intended to hide in the organized lawlessness of wizarding Germany, pick up a few less-than-reputable spells and tactics, and at some point, do the heroically foolish thing and go home to fight the good fight. Now, I'd somehow managed to get myself covered in affairs that I wanted nothing to do with. Take on one hundred soul sucking creatures to save my best friend and recently discovered godfather – sure. But international intrigue, politics…I've been told more than once that subtlety isn't my strong suit.

I'd first met Delacour months back, just after the accidental slaughter behind the Wolf's Tooth Tavern. It didn't take long before the news made headlines – Bellatrix Lestrange murders English ministry officials abroad! It's funny, how back home they let Bellatrix get away quite literally with murder, and blamed the lot on Sirius, and here they get an inkling she might be in the area, and she's headline news when she's actually not guilty. Yep, funny…

Delacour's name had popped up though, and it was fairly obvious that there wasn't anything at all connecting him to the murderer or the murdered – I know what it's like to be dragged through the mud, and every indication was that Delacour was the largest scapegoat in western Europe – a major politician with enough 'outside-the-box' skeletons in his closet to make him ideally suited to be thrown overboard.

Of course, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean there isn't an insane witch trying to kill you. I found out a bit more about Delacour, most importantly gaining an inside source under the provision that I took an oath of secrecy. Everything I'd discovered led to the run-of-the-mill political crap I've grown accustomed to, and I hadn't really expected tonight to be any different. Quite frankly, I'd been on the verge of calling it quits, this attempt at playing spy was beginning to hamper my original purpose.

Now though, walking along the Gironde and staring blankly across to the other shore, I felt the heavy weight of responsibility come crashing once more onto my shoulders. Despite the sensationalism, Delacour was most certainly involved with the group that had ambushed me earlier, and from the sounds of things, they were very serious about bringing change to Britain. Outside of Fudge's cronies and possibly a loose coalition centered around the Order, there was only one other major player in British politics, and that was Voldemort and the pureblood movement. As for Monsieur Delacour, if it looks like a rat, smells like a rat… I turned around, back towards the city.

As if the evening couldn't make me feel any worse, I replayed the last thing that I heard inside that café, and suddenly I couldn't hold back a great laugh from bellowing from my throat, echoing off the masonry around me. After everything else, I now had very good reason to believe that the one person who knew where I was, the one person who I found myself trusting, even if I didn't actually trust, may very well have been trying to kill me.

Fucking Perfect.

"All I know for sure was that he worked for the French ministry."

The Headmaster sat still, strangely nonplussed by this turn of events. Finally he smiled, reassuring his guest. "I must say, all in all this isn't terribly surprising. International politics as usual."

Harry nodded, though he was slightly bewildered and a little uncomfortable with the ease with which the headmaster accepted that foreign powers were watching England, her nearest neighbor well entangled in her private affairs. Of course, the Headmaster did not know who exactly had met up with Harry's abductors, only that the individual was definitively French. For a moment, Harry was tempted to reveal the source, to give the headmaster some hint as to the Frenchman's identity, until remembering the debate was academic – when it came to Monsieur Delacour's business and identity, Harry couldn't share what he knew, no matter how much he might have wanted to.

"Yes, thank you Harry – I daresay I've kept you long enough. You've given me plenty to think about, I can assure you." The headmaster's voice once again cut through his thoughts, breaking his concentration. "I must ask once again, however – do you have any idea where Bellatrix Lestrange may be at the present time? You said you heard that she was also in Germany at the time of your disappearance."

Harry's looked up at the headmaster, his face an odd portrait of both pain and grim satisfaction. "Bellatrix Lestrange professor, will never murder another soul again. Honestly sir, I wish I could take credit for it, but I can't. Fact remains, she's gone sir. The Lestrange line is gone forever."

Choking down the anger that threatened to engulf him, Harry turned away, walking out of the study, tension following his every movement. Dumbledore rubbed his eyes, before distractedly stroking his beard as his mind became lost in thought. Curious, very curious.

* * *

AN: I've been asked to provide French translations:

_"Chaque repas, la meme – il a __les manières et le raffinement d'un porc… j'ai certainement choisi le meilleur frère.__"_

Every meal, the same (thing) - he has the manners and refinement of a pig...I certainly chose the better brother.

_Conseil International de la Sorcellerie du Monde Francophone_

International Council of Wizardry of the French (French speaking) World

_D'accord_

O.K., Alright, etc.

_vraiment_

Truly


	5. Chapter 4

That evening, it was an anxious and guiltily, an excited group that gathered in the dreary living room of Grimmauld Place

That evening, it was an anxious and guiltily, an excited group that gathered in the dreary living room of Grimmauld Place. The day had been particularly cold, and even numerous warming charms did little to take the edge off the draft that seemed to be a permanent resident in the dimly lit home. None of those in attendance noticed, far too absorbed in discovering whatever happened to Harry next.

There was a single exception. As Harry returned to his familiar place on the old couch, between Fleur to his right and her fiancé, Bill stood up, visibly shaken and disturbed.

"Harry," he began, voice faltering as he attempted to remain calm. "I understand you've been through a lot, believe me mate, I do. But before we start talking about anything else, I've got to ask. What did you do to drag Fleur into this mess?"

The reactions varied across the room, though all appeared shocked at the tone of betrayal and malice that lurked in Bill's question. The Weasley family as a whole appeared entirely bewildered, and though Molly responded with a horrified "William…Harry'd never!" the tension increased dramatically. Hermione was looking at Bill in obvious distaste, and the older members of the Order glanced between the two parties uneasily, unsure which to support.

It was Fleur's reaction however, that proved the most astonishing.

"William…_C'est incroyable! _All day, have I not asked you to leave it be, for the moment? I didn't want…" She paused, looking around at the assembled Order. "I do not know all these people, I do not want…" Unable to continue, she threw her head into Harry's robes, her sobs silent, though all witnessed the obvious shaking in her body. Were it not for both the circumstances and the company, one of whom was now glaring daggers into his skull, Harry may have found this position comfortable. As it was, it was anything but.

Harry took a moment to whisper a soft reassurance into the French witch's ear, softly brushing back wisps of blonde hair, before pacing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. Looking up, he immediately returned Bill's murderous glare twice-fold.

"It wasn't easy, where we were. She wasn't hurt…wasn't hurt like she could have been, but it wasn't exactly a good time. Leave her be." Bill looked down, slightly unnerved by Harry's response, before lashing out again.

"You'll forgive me Harry, for being concerned when I suddenly found myself under the Imperious Curse, making an illegal portkey to _Albania _of all places, and then tricking my own _fiancée _into activating it. I think I have a right to know just _what the hell is going on._"

"Mr. Weasley." Dumbeldore's voice rose over the handful of gasps – those unaware of how Fleur had been taken prisoner in the first place. "Mr. Potter and Ms. Delacour will recount their story at their leisure, and are entitled to retain any details they deem private. Let me remind you that the _only _reason we are all here is at Mr. Potter's and Ms. Delacour's bequest, or else I would simply ask both of them to tell me in private any pertinent information they may have, and let the matter rest. If you cannot contain yourself, you will be asked to leave."

His tone was steely, full of power and a tone that carried a promised threat if the situation continued. Immediately, Bill looked away, mumbling a stiff apology before moving around Harry, falling back into the couch on the other side of Fleur. It came as a surprise to no one when she shifted ever so slightly to her left.

Harry and Fleur shared another look, before Harry turned back to the headmaster. "Sir, I do understand where Bill is coming from…we both do. I suppose it's only fair that I tell you what happened…it was in a way my fault."

"Pfft. _C'est faux. _I will let Harry tell the story, but 'e is hardly to blame. I was taken as a…an 'ostage because I am of a prominent _famille_, and ze…bâtards…zey wanted to …stir the pot, _non?" _Fleur replied, her accent noticeably stronger in the passion of argument.

Harry nodded, but responded contrarily, "Maybe…still, I should have…" he broke off, silenced by her glare.

Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Alright…agree to disagree?" Taking her soft _huff _as the closest thing to agreement, he turned again to face the room. "I talked to Dumbledore privately earlier, about how on Halloween, my captors met with someone who had been working with the two men who…who died." He took another breath, releasing it in a shuddering sigh "I don't know who he was, but I think he was French, and it was a month after that he appeared again. Not long after… I guess they planned the kidnapping. I've no idea about the details, but that was when Fleur arrived."

London – cold, dreary, and rain coming down in thick ropes, absolutely _pissing _down. It's really no wonder that Fudge was always scampering down to Paris or Venice for '_Official business pertaining to the security and cooperation of magical beings of Europe._" Asshole.

This was my first time back to England since I pulled a runner back in July, and it was hard to hide just how nervous I felt. I had left for a reason, and putting my head in the lion's mouth didn't seem like the most conscientious decision I've ever made. I've done some reckless things in my time – trying to sneak a dragon through the most warded location in Britain for one, taking on the entire Dementor force of Azkaban alone being another. This was just another one of those times that couldn't be avoided.

I got through the Leaky Cauldron quickly enough, moving quickly through the morning rush, I went through unnoticed, meandering with the early crowds through the pedestrian alleys, slowly making my was towards Gringotts.

Just before the bank, I turned left, down a pleasant enough alley that ended in a two story nondescript red-brick building. Looking around to check for wandering eyes, I lifted my invisibility cloak out from inside my robes, throwing it over me before checking the watch I'd purchased specifically for the occasion. 8:38. Perfect.

Bill Weasley is an incredibly punctual fellow - whether he's just from a different mold than the rest of his clan, or whether working for Goblins keeps him scared shitless of being late, I've got no idea. Never the less, everyday, without fail, he floos directly to one of the three hearths in the building I'm watching, coming out the door at exactly quarter till nine. From there, it's a two minute walk into Gringott's, and ten till he's in his office, examining whatever trinket or treasure the goblins want searched for arcane torture curses or what have you. Good for business, but very, _very_ bad if someone's after you. This morning, for Bill at least, someone was.

Sure enough, he came out right on time, his business robes a stark contrast to his rugged face, complete with long scraggly hair and a wicked looking earring – no doubt filled to the brim with protection charms. No charm for the Unforgiveables though, or else they'd be called The Obsoletes.

_Dammit. _He stopped – he'd realized there's something with him in the alley, even if he couldn't see it, and I had no choice but to throw the curse then and there. "_Imperio_" I whispered, softly as possible.

For a moment he struggled, and I feared that he was going to break the curse. He hadn't had time to fire a curse of his own at me, but he'd been wary, and that helps a lot when countering attacks on the mind. I fought like hell, pushing my will into his head – it was like rolling boulders up a hill, a kind of physical resistance that only intensified as the battle continued. With a groan, I pushed, and mercifully, his resistance died down, eyes glazing and pupil dilating before he blinked languidly, and his expression returned to normal. It was over, thank god.

There were of course, complications. Bill could very well still be resisting the curse, and so I couldn't risk staying in close contact – if he found out for even a second who I was, I'd have to kill him or hold him forever. I wasn't fond of either prospect, not at all – hell, I'm still the same Harry at heart I was six months ago, just a little more…willing to compromise around the edges.

We were also late, so first thing in order was to get Bill to work. We had to run, but given the chaos of Diagon Alley when the stores are first opening, it wasn't anything that drew unwanted attention. Bill went through the front door without looking back, and I turned away, sitting down heavily on a bench not too far down from the bank's front.

Sitting down, I realized I was still wearing my cloak. No rest for the weary. Getting up again, I went round the back of the store, greeted by a dreary little plot, hardly big enough to stand comfortably. I threw the cloak off, taking deep breaths before leaning back against the stone wall, I was shaking slightly, a thin layer of sweat trailing down my face. Mind control, it takes a lot out of you.

I stayed like that for five minutes, before letting out a shaky breath and putting my cloak back on. I couldn't let Bill go unattended for long, not when the curse had been so tenuously placed.

I closed my eyes, cutting out the stuff around me to more clearly focus on Bill's whereabouts. The images were fuzzy and grey – I wasn't seeing through his eyes, just kind of…picking up a general idea of what he saw. He was tinkering with something, though I couldn't make out what. It was clear however, that he was alone.

With great effort, I sent a mental command through the magical thread between us. _Stop. Grab Parchment. Prepare to write. _The games begin.

_Petal,_

_Thinking of you. Noon. Agincourt._

_Love, William._

Short, granted. Still, it's a hell of a lot of work to make someone do something so specific, and I don't go around practicing the Imperious Curse in my free time. More to the point, it's not my fault that the goblins charge employees by the word for non-urgent memos. Greedy little bunch.

Also, bonus. Fleur _hated _the nicknames the Weasley's gave her, from Ginny's '_Phlegm' _to Mr. Weasley's butchered '_Mad Mazelle'. _ . She'd show up of course, but she'd be pissed to hell, and anger tends to make you less weary.

I had a few hours to kill, and there wasn't really much to do, except think and keep an eye on Bill, so I stayed there, a drying and repulsion charm protecting me from the storm overhead, reflecting back on hectic mess my life had become.

It had been three weeks since Halloween, and since then I hadn't really done much. I'd been training, granted, and kept an ear on the ground as to any more activity that might concern me, but Monseiur Delacour had thrown me off balance, and odds were that my sole contact into the political madhouse had long since been compromised.

Now though, it was time for answers, and no one was better placed to give me an inkling into just what by Merlin's balls was happening, than our resident French veela, and conveniently enough, eldest child of one of my largest enigmas. Fleur Delacour – outside a doll, inside the plague.

Half an hour before noon, I took direct control of Bill a second time. He took a galleon out his pocket, before transfiguring it into a dozen roses. They wouldn't last, but they didn't need to either. For a moment, his face flickered again – obviously, he really didn't like the next command. He followed it though, a flat _'Portus' _coming from his mouth, the flowers flashing a bright green before fading back. This was the hardest step, as I had to control Bill's intent to determine both location and activation word. As an afterthought, I had him throw on a tracking charm – no sense in not taking precautions.

Time to go. Agincourt is a faux French restaurant about ten minute's walk from the bank. Fleur secretly hates it – the food apparently, is dreadful – nothing like real French cuisine, and always smothered in _Sauce Anglaise – _her words, not mine. The name of course, is only adding insult to injury. Bill loves it though, and thinks it's great that Fleur has access to such an authentic taste of France when she starts feeling homesick.

Again, combined with 'Petal', she's going to be her bitchy, self-occupied self that sets off Hermione and Ginny like you wouldn't believe, even if for some reason, I can't seem to muster up the energy to ever complain.

There she came, obviously upset but looking as ravishing as always, her pout doing absolutely _fantastic _things for my imagination. Bill came up a few minutes later, just late enough to fuel her mood, without being enough to really be upset over.

She seemed to calm down a bit when he pulled out the bouquet of roses from behind his back, leaning in as he moved to kiss her. She'd find something wrong with them later though – she's got a talent of making everything look like shit when she's in the wrong frame of mind. Maybe I was doing Bill a favor, as he wouldn't be around to witness it.

"Love you Fleur", Bill said softly, brushing a hand against her cheek.

The tension left her body ever so slightly, and more out of impulse, she replied. "William, I love you too."

And then hell broke loose. On the word 'love', Fleur popped out of existence, her face a look of pure gold – a mix of genuine shock and a horrified realization of what was happening, just a second before she disappeared. I released the curse from Bill the moment the portkey took her away, and in an instant, apparated out of the street, now fully consumed with panicked chaos. Just goes to show you, the power of love.

Fucking multiapparations. It's a good thing that Europe's border patrol is as effective as a leaky sieve, but I really, really hate multiapparations. With a passion. London, Calais, Frankfurt, Vienna, Split, and Tirane – a personal best coming it at just under three minutes, and every single jump illegal. Like I said though, continental border monitoring is all but nonexistent, as nobody can agree who rules what anyway. Alsace-Lorraine – France of Germany? Never mind that Germany is governed by Austia-Hungary, which in the muggle world, no longer even _exists. _Geopolitics between the two worlds has never been what one would call simple, but in the last few decades it's reached the point where unless a notorious psycho is on the rampage, like Bella supposedly was a few months back, nobody really gives two Knuts who's going where, provided they pay their taxes.

There was no time to worry about all that though. Fleur had just portkeyed about two thousand kilometers, and would obviously suffer a spell of dizziness and nausea at her destination – a bleak but sturdy basement in a rundown block of flats on the outskirts of Tirane. Even with my less than instantaneous method of travel and the few seconds of breath I allowed myself between stops, I felt sick to my stomach, so Fleur was obviously going to be worse.

I've learned better than to make assumptions though, so in addition, I'd spent enough money to buy a small house to get my hands on a pair on enchanted manacles. First person to enter the room after I'd activated them would very quickly find themselves securely bound. Once I'm through with them, I'm planning to sell them to George – he seems to imagine that Angelina is into kinky shit – maybe he'll get lucky.

"'Allo? …_Merde!" _Her voice was hushed, though filled with righteous anger. Calmly, I intoned, _"Lumos"_ and at this proximity, I could see her look of surprise and the faint traces of fear as they gave way to full blown rage. "'Arry…you…you _cons. _What are you thinking, you idiot child…stealing me away like this…" She broke off, the rage no less visible in her face but she was looking at me know, and she could tell, I was beyond furious.

"Hello again Fleur, a pleasure to see you again as well." I was trying goddamn it, to keep my tone level, and the over-the-top cheer was the only way I was going to get out of this without blowing my own head off. "Just thought I'd invite you round for a few questions, if it's all the same to you."

She sniffed, and despite being shackled and on her knees I couldn't help but feel that she was looking down at me. "_C'est_ _midi, exactement. _My lunchtime, it ends at one. You have an hour.

That was the last straw, and I really couldn't contain myself. Clenching my fists tightly, I felt my fingernails bite into the flesh of my palms, eager to vent frustration any way possible. With a snarl, I responded, "I want answers, Fleur – real ones – not the shit you've been giving me while leading me around by the short hairs."

Furiously, I tore the bouquet of roses from her, where they'd been resting idly in her hands. They'd worked perfectly – let anyone interested trace Fleur's trail to here – the grungy place left much to the imagination. I grabbed her roughly from behind, holding her flush against my chest. She wriggled, deliciously and furiously, and I bit back a curse at my growing hardon as her ass started grinding away into my pelvis. With a deep breath, I focused on my magic, and thanked heaven above when we disappeared with a soft _pop_, the pair of us falling awkwardly onto the hard stone floor of my hideaway. I'd done it – cast an unforgivable, traversed the continent of Europe in its entirety, kidnapped the daughter of a prominent politician, and mercifully, made it back to Munich – all in one piece. And to think I hadn't even had lunch. There are times I'd kill for a house elf.

* * *

AN: French

_C'est incroyable_

It is incredible!

_cons_

As a figure of speech, equivalent to 'asshole' or even 'jerk'. Literally, it's a bit more extreme, and really not too difficult to decipher...

_C'est_ _midi, exactement_

It's midday, exactly.


	6. Chapter 5

"'Arry? _Mon Petit? _I want to talk now…it is what you want, yes?" For the love of love, even when she whines – and she been doing nothing else for three days – she sounds like a wet dream. I was outside, lying comfortably against the wall outside the room that was serving as her prison cell. She was driving me crazy.

"Or perhaps…" she continued, her voice dropping into a seductive purr. "You are wanting something else…" Right, enough was enough – she hadn't done anything but play me like a violin for days on end now, and I was the supposed to be the one in charge, dammit.

Leaving my wand outside, I went into the room, immediately noticing Fleur stretched out in the corner of the room – she looked as though she were just waking up from a relaxing nap, and her manacled limbs only adding a touch of surrealism to the image. I felt a twitch…like I said, playing me like a violin.

Arching her back gracefully, she twisted towards me, her breast pushed ever so slightly forward. "I do not… _Je comprends pas, '_Arry. We are…partners, yes? For how many months? _Deux, Trois? _Just remove these 'ideous shackles and we will talk – like we used to." She thrusts her arms forward, as if showing me for the first time the physical cause of her predicament. Pale slender arms held together by enchanted iron, her face soft and inviting, though her eyes, a soft blue, betrayed a hint of the same hardness as her restraints.

I closed my eyes for a moment, rubbing my temples and praying that the headache that will inevitably follow takes a pass just this once. Taking a moment to regain control of _all _parts of my anatomy, I spoke in as level a tone as possible given the situation.

"Fleur, we've been over this before – this isn't like the last times. You're father is up to his neck in something that could very well get me killed. You know something about it, and I know you know something about it. We're both under oath, so just tell me what it is I'm facing."

She's the very picture of innocence, and as such, ignored my question entirely.

"You should be a gentlemen, 'Arry – you have the looks you know, you could be very… _charmant…_But if you will not let me go, perhaps just loosen my hands… just _un peu. _I am uncomfortable, and I feel dirty – these clothes, they are no longer any good."

Oh she's good. There are many good qualities about Fleur, even if I rarely see them. She's by far the hottest girl I've ever met, and Hogwarts is pleasantly lush. She's smart, elegant, witty and sharper than most people give her credit for. She carries herself with a class and confidence that I've only seen in a few wizards and witches. She is also a manipulative bitch with one hell of temper, and that's the Fleur that I find myself most often working with.

"I'm not letting you go Fleur. I'm not loosening your bonds, and you're going to have to deal with me hosing you down once a day as your new bathing regimen. So just tell me what I need to know, and I'll send you back on your way, along with the cock and bull story about an attempt at ransom against your father."

_Point, Harry._ She'd really pissed me off back on day one, slamming me with a full veela aura while I was arranging her cell. When I managed to come to, I hacked her hair to bits, telling her I'd send the pieces to her father with a phony note of ransom. I haven't – not yet anyway – as any thing that came directly from me was a risk. I wasn't willing to take. Still, it shut her up for a few hours, and I'll take any victory these days.

Being under a veela's magic was the most terrifying experience of my life to date, and that's an impressive feat. I might have enough control to not turn into a drooling imbecile at first site of Fleur, but nothing with stones could stand up to the full thing. I can't really describe the sensation, except the sudden need….the need to please her, bring her every comfort her whims desired, to lie at her feet and bask in her beauty – it was overwhelming. My own life and safety weren't just secondary concerns, they were _nonexistent._

I was saved when she asked for my wand. I haven't carried my original in weeks, and as I pulled out Bella's…this darkness inhabited my body. I don't mean darkness as in 'evil', though I suppose it probably was. I mean that quite literally, I grabbed the wand, fully intending to give it to Fleur, and suddenly, I felt my insides turn black, as if everything living had fled my body. It was not at all pleasant, though surprisingly not painful either, and I was able to breathe again, though the air tasted cold, bitter, and full of power.

It gave me a break anyway, and I flung myself away from Fleur, scrambling to put as much space between us as possible. She hasn't tried the trick since – I threatened I'd cut off something that won't grow back next time, and when I said it, I think both of us assumed I was telling the truth.

She was silent again, before once again, ignoring my query. "If not the manacles, there are other ways to keep people contained you know. A containment ward, perhaps? I could not leave without your permission, but I could be allowwed to… stretch my legs? The ward is not so difficult, even a mediocre fifth year at Beauxbatons would have memorized the runes for a basic containment spell, and to extrapolate the requirements to contain a person to a room – it is not terribly hard."

She shrugged her shoulders, simultaneously raising an eyebrow elegantly before looking at me with a condescending smirk. "_Alors, J'oublie, _the great 'Arry Potter does not see fit to learn subjects of any use, 'e prefers to hear more about the fame he will receive in the future, _non?"_

I rolled my eyes, I've already come to terms with my past history, and this isn't the first time she's insulted by lack of knowledge.

That wasn't to say I was getting frustrated, and I found myself shouting at her in exasperation. "Fleur…you stupid, most aggravating…what is so terribly difficult to understand? Why can't you see that we're on the same side." Her look of faux shock and amusement brought me out of my rising hysterics, but I continued nonetheless. "We are…" I grumbled defensively, before continuing "Your father's pissed off a bunch of important people in France, and wants to get back in power. I want to live, and in order to do so, need to kill Voldemort and destroy his base of support. Beyond that, I don't care if half the bloody ministry is involved with your father's schemes, as long as they just leave me alone."

She lets out a string of giggles, a little tinkling noise that's equal parts genuine amusement and snide condescension. "_Oui, _of course 'Arry. It is why I agreed to take your silly oath. I help you when you need help – which is far too often, I think. In return, you swore to keep my family's affairs a secret. What you ask me now is not at all relevant, yet you hold me against my will. I am thinking, 'Arry, that you are not a man of his word."

Calmly as possible, though anger clearly visible, I responded. "My _oath, _if you can be bothered to recall, was to protect the privacy of your family's affairs, _with the exception, _that it involve murder or Voldermort. I know what I saw on Halloween Fleur, you sent me there, remember? I've got reason to believe that what's going on has to do with both, so don't talk to me about oaths."

I take a deep breath, reigning in my temper. It almost breaks out again though at the sight of Fleur, who is now smiling at me as if I'm some stupid child, and I can't help but fear that in someway, I am.

"'Arry, I remember _to the word _your oath. You cannot slander my family, simply because you believe there may be a conspiracy or murder. You need absolute proof, that the act has been committed."

I'm horrified, I'm sure my expression is hilarious. Fleur and I exchanged oaths just after I first found out about Monsieur Delacour's ambitions. I'd met with her privately a few times since, and we never spoke of the oaths again. To hear her say such now…I've done something irreversibly stupid, and she's now playing her trump card.

"Are you saying" I replied slowly, "that I can't share with anyone besides yourself that your father is planning to kill someone…until _after_ they've died."

She giggled again, that eerie combination of light, airy wisps of laughter and steely malice. "_Non, _that is not what I'm saying. Once they are dead, you may inform whoever you like that they have been murdered. However, it is only to the corps that you may reveal my father's involvement."

Note to self: Never, _ever_ take a wizard's oath lightly again.

She continued. "The point is of course, moot, as my father is an honorable man, and as such, above murdering those who oppose him, or aligning himself with a madman. Still, 'Arry, you ought to be more careful, people may take you for a fool."

_Point, Fleur._

"Right then," I sigh, the recent turn of events breaking the last barrier of a terrific migraine from coming on. "Suppose we make a new deal, I release you, no containments, no anything, and you agree to stay here for the rest of the month, no plots or betrayals – just helping me with the thousands of things I need to do that don't pertain to your father."

She scowled, confused by the turn of events, and I took it as a good sign. "Call it my chivalrous streak, but I can't stand having to keep you tied up like this for weeks on end. So you help me, I'll quit trying to dig dirt on your father, and everyone's happy." I try to lighten the mood with a grin, though it came across as grim. A grim grin. "Think of it as a holiday, I'll even buy the goose liver stuff – the kind you can't get at Agincourt."

"In short, 'Arry, we will return to our usual arrangement, except you will pay for everything, and I will pretend not to be furious that you are so foolish as to lock me up and learn nothing from the assistance I have given you thus far."

Game over. Fleur – 2, Harry – 1.

"Yeh…basically." I mumble.

She smiles, all perfect teeth and soft full lips, and her face seems to glow with the first sign of genuine contentment since her arrival here. "_Bon_…now release me – I need to bathe, and I have not eaten well in some time…"

Like I said, I'm the one in control, dammit.

"_Non, pas de tout. _Your accent is terrible, the diction is wrong, and I very much doubt you have any idea what you are saying."

I grimaced, frustrated from hours of practice and insults. "This isn't something you learn overnight you know, I've hardly been learning for weeks – give me some credit." I mumbled, determined to put an end to her constant put downs.

Instead, she snapped back, her face sharp and tight, and I couldn't help but wander if I was seeing a trace of a full veela's avian form. "The ministry Christmas function is in three weeks, is it not? You want to go, and I promise you the only Englishmen important enough to be invited to the party will have at least some knowledge of French. If you are to pass as the heir of an important family, even a dim one, you must have some idea, _comprends?_"

I'd gotten much better at retaliating to her incessant quips, and without missing a beat, drawled, "Yes yes, I'm an English pureblood and you're my French companion for the evening. All will go well provided daddy doesn't catch us." The last sentence was uttered in a mocking, sing-song voice, deliberately added to irritate Fleur. He hadn't been invited, after all.

"It is not a matter to worry about," she sniffed, reigning in her exasperation. "It is you who has decided that this function is worth infiltrating, and so it is I who must do all the work, including pounding a language actually worth speaking into your thick, English skull."

I took a deep breath – I'd thought by releasing Fleur from her imprisonment I'd buy myself at least some relief, but the past fortnight had buried for good any such thoughts. As I said before, Fleur excels in making anything look like garbage when she puts her mind to it, and nothing I did seemed to stop her being her less-than-pleasant self. She had however, wounded my pride, and I felt the need to defend if not my ability to learn a foreign language in less than a month, then at least my effort in the matter.

"I'm the one doing the actual learning Fleur, and your nattering on hardly qualifies as teaching. Let's not forget that it was I who discovered that a number of important British politicians are just happening to be in Paris during the party, and it was I who stole an invitation in the first place."

She silenced at that, her jaw opening once before snapping shut. Confident in my victory, I naturally took another step. "And for another matter, we're _wizards. _We do _magic. _Surely someone, somewhere along the way, came up with a spell to absorb a _sodding language._

The minute she opened her mouth I wished to magic itself that I had a time turner and could somehow stop myself from going the extra mile. I couldn't, so I got another verbal lashing instead.

"_Oui, _if we were trying to learn English, perhaps a spell exists. It cannot be too difficult after all, to translate grunts and noises. But French, it is a magic in it's own right – you can no quicker learn such beauty than you could charm your mind to absorb your textbooks…though again, perhaps 'Ogwarts is an exception."

Right, tact had just flown out the window – time to hit hard with the home truths. In as spiteful tone as I could muster, I asked. "What exactly, is wrong with you Fleur? You hate English food, you hate English culture, you hate English schools. Language, weather, and by all appearances, even our bloody sovereignty is asking too much from you and your family. So why, exactly, in the very name of magic, are you planning to marry an _English man?"_

Silence, absolute blessed silence. For weeks, I'd have emptied out what remains of my vault for five minutes of the stuff…now I wondered if I'd gone too far.

She just stood there for minutes, looking at me but not _at me _– some point in the distance that was invisible to everyone save her. Finally, she shrugged, a graceful gesture designed to render my entire question meaningless, though she answered anyway.

"William…he will do well for himself. He is smart, ambitious…perhaps in a few years, he will be well placed in your English society – an important person within the treasury, _non? _His family… they are friends of yours, with Albus Dumbledore – I believe that will be important, in your country's future." Her posture changed subtly, returning to her usual sense of confidence. "_Et oui_, he is attractive enough, and like the rest of his brothers, he is weak to my charm…if I choose to occasionally sleep with another, he will either pretend not to notice or pretend not to care."

Wow. I didn't have anything to say to that – I've come to think that true love is a sort of cosmic joke, and given my history, I'd say I'm well within my rights to think that. But Fleur…this was beyond jaded. The room was suddenly very, very uncomfortable.

"Right, well…fair enough then." It sounded hollow and false, which it was, but I'd hoped to at least end the conversation gracefully. No such luck. She didn't respond though, just simply gave me a look that told me what she thought of me – not much – and stalked out the room. I didn't follow, rationalizing that I needed to spend extra time going over the new spells I was currently studying, and afterward I needed to pick up whatever I was going to do for dinner…

We didn't talk again for the rest of the day, and dinner was a horribly tense affair, the air stiff without Fleur's attacks upon my cooking and my subsequent retaliations of her own unwillingness to cook. Hell, I'd even gone through the trouble of picking up a Haut Brion in an effort to say 'sorry', and we ended up drinking the entire bottle in one sitting, and in absolute silence. All around, an unmitigated disaster.

Finally, just as I was preparing for bed – a transfigured cot in the corner of one on our three-roomed hide away, she spoke, her voice soft, and with a touch of gentleness that I'd hadn't had directed at me since the day of the second task. "'Arry, there are some spells for the memory, that perhaps we can use to our advantage. I do not recommend them long term – spells that effect the brain are always dangerous in multitude, but we can see if perhaps once or twice will aid your efforts."

Turning towards her, I returned a faint smile. "Thank you Fleur…I'm grateful."

And I was.

* * *

AN: French

_Mon Petit_

Literally, 'my little'. Term of affection, most commonly would complete to 'Mon Petit Ami, which is 'boyfriend'.

_Je comprends pas._

I don't understand.

_Deux, Trois? _

Two, three?

_charmant_

Charming

_Alors, J'oublie_

Alas, I forget

_Non, pas de tout_

Not, not at all.


	7. Chapter 6

Funny how all the important moments of my life seem to fall on holidays. Halloween's always a big one, and has been since before I can actually remember. And my birthday, hell – that one started playing games with me before I was even _born._ All things considered, I suppose it's no wonder why I prefer Christmas.

Even with the Dursleys, Christmas was the better of the three. The other two, I seemed to be more of a target – the resentment of my presence intensified during those times, that was if the Dursleys could be bothered to remember my birthday in the first place. Christmas though, was all about Dudders and looking like a happy, normal family. I for the most part was simply ignored, and that's just the way I preferred it.

Hogwarts changed things. I remember my first Christmas, waking up for the first time with my own stack of presents. It's bittersweet, thinking about just how happyI was, just how _grateful_. Ron, bless his simple soul, was simply overwhelmed like any normal eleven year old on Christmas day, and even at the best of times, empathy isn't his strong suit. I was happy, but it wasn't because I'd gotten gifts, but because someone had found me worthy of deserving them…

Such introspective thoughts were lost that evening, Christmas Eve, as we strolled along the River Seine, towards Île_ de France_, the location of tonight's celebration. Around us, the streets teemed with life, as pedestrians and muggle traffic moved noisily forward, some eager to return home to loved ones, others slowly, contently, already wrapped in a lovers embrace. More than once, I found myself wondering which of the two Fleur and I resembled.

"'Arry, _on arrive tout de suite." _I blinked once, turning towards Fleur with an amused expression, looking down at her with a smile. I'd taken a little growth and aging potion before we'd left, and had quickly come to appreciate what my vantage point offered.

"_D'accord, la porte, c'est_…the building after the Notre Dame, err…_oui?" _I responded after a moment, trying desperately to remember my lessons. Hard enough to do at the best of times, but with Fleur's arm wrapped tightly around my own, and no dress no matter how conservative could hide her figure…

"_Le prochain batiment après La Notre Dame, c'est ça._" Ah yes, of course.

We arrived shortly after just as she'd said we would, passing by the great cathedral and heading instead towards a smaller stone building across from its massive entrance. Fleur moved forward, confidence radiating from her, and grabbed the brass knocker in one perfect gesture. She knocked twice, a faint trace of magic emanating from her as she did so, and a moment later, the door opened gracefully with a soft _woosh, _though no one waited on the other side.

"_Venez, ça ne reste pas ouvert longtemps_" She whispered impatiently, though with a formality necessary for our current situation. Nodding, I followed, and we found ourselves in a dimly lit hallway, torchlight playing in the ancient walls.

There were others in the hall, perhaps a dozen wizards and witches, all dressed in elegant robes and long, aristocratic dresses. Fleur paid no notice and they in return did little more than nod formally, and though I knew she had been to ministry functions before, it was strange to see her so at ease with these cat-and-mouse games that wizards across the world have set up to keep out of sight from the muggle majority. It was amusing, to see the cream of wizarding society, entering a function of the highest order through such a gloomy and concealed entrance.

Looking back, I suppose it was such indignities that were my first taste of the pureblood point of view – that muggles, through sheer numbers, were forcing wizards into smaller and smaller spaces, such as cramped hallways such as this. At the time however, I'll admit that my thoughts were filled with nervous apprehension at sneaking into such an elite function, and the distraction of Fleur's body, pushed tight against mine as she played off for the potential crowd. I shook my head, bracing my nerves. I too had a part to play, Fleur was after all, supposed to be my fiancée for the evening, and subconsciously, I stood taller, enjoying the feel of the silk lined robes Fleur had insisted I purchase for the occasion.

Hardly a minute later we went through the door, a burly wizard at the door saying nothing as we passed through, merely bowing slightly to us while his eyes fixed upon the invitation I held loosely in my hand. As we entered, I involuntarily let out a short _gasp, _the magnificence of the room far beyond my wildest imagination.

The hall was massive, well lit by hundreds if not thousands of candles. It was warm, couples dancing to the rich sound of joyful music, mixed with the hum of talk and laughter. We had not climbed any stairs since entering the door from outside, yet the entire perimeter of the building was made of giant windows, all showing a magnificent view of the Parisian cityscape from above. The women to a one were gorgeous – beautiful creations, works of art. Despite Fleur at my side my eyes drifted towards a shapely figure dressed in a dark red gown, a soft face with dark hair, a calculating look in hard eyes, fingers seductively tapping the half filled wine glass in her hand. For a moment our eyes met, and I felt Fleur's elbow in my side a moment after a shiver erupted down my spine.

The men by comparison varied greatly, though every one of them – from the tall, skinny wizard with the beak nose who stood quietly on his own, to a balding, overweight wizard with an outrageous walrus mustache – each one thrummed with power and influence, a quiet sense of superiority that washed like a lazy river through the guests. Instantly, I felt out of place.

"Charles, _mon amour, _you are gawking." Blinking stupidly, I turned once again to Fleur, and grinning sheepishly, responded. "My sincerest apologies, _Chérie_. You were correct, I think, to say that this would exceed anything I've yet experienced." She smiled, a mixture of superiority and relief, and the queasiness that had so quickly threatened to overtake me began to lessen as I took Fleur's hand, guiding me through the mingling crowd.

We stopped near the orchestra, watching the musicians as we took two flutes of Champaign from an enchanted platter as it passed by. With a teasing smile, Fleur looked up at me, raising her glass in a mock salute, her eyes half closed. "_Joyeux Noël_, Charles," she purred, and I fought the urge to adjust myself. A beat later, I responded likewise, _"Joyeux Noël, Isabelle."_

We stood there for quarter of an hour, sipping the wine and listening to the music. Just as I prepared the nerve to ask her for a dance, I noticed a figure walking towards us, and cursed the approaching women, all while doing my best to remain in character.

_"Bonsoir, Monsieur, Madame. J'espère que tout va bien..."_ I stared, clueless. Fleur always spoke French to me slowly and clearly, never saying more than a few sentences until she was sure I understood. This woman, as plump as Mrs. Weasley though with a poise and style that the former lacked, had just jammed who-knows-what down my throat with more frills than I could care to name. Fleur of course, had no troubles.

"_Merci, Madame Secretaire, votre ministère a organisé une fête magnifique ce soir.C'est un plaisir d'être présent, pour moi-même ainsi que pour mon fiancé._" I caught that; apparently we are both thrilled to be here, and this woman is important. Fleur's tone changed subtlety, as if she's about to make a joke. _"Veuillez lui pardonner, il est anglais." _Ha bloody ha.

I smiled though, before attempting to restore some shred of my own dignity. "_Oui, Anglais, mais je le compense en épousant une française. Comme ma fiancée a dit, c'est un plaisir d'être ici." _Fleur blushes prettily, and though I knew it was an act, I still felt a thrill go through my body. Our guest however, simply gives me a great beaming smile.

"An admiral effort, _Monsieur. _It is my pleasure also, to meet such a fine young couple as yourselves. I am Madame Devereux, undersecretary to the minister, and liaison for his majesty's government tonight. If you have any concerns this evening, do let us know, and we shall do our best to make your evening as accommodating as possible."

Her eyes dart up, looking just above me. I turned around, and in an instant, my blood froze over. Last I heard, this man was in Azkaban. Now, he was out in the open, at an official banquet of the French Government no less. Stepping past me in one long step, Lucius Malfoy moved toward Madame Devereux, who carefully took a small step back.

"Monsieur Malfoy, a pleasure to see you once again, though your presence is a pleasant surprise." Unlike before, her voice was paradoxically both tight and airy, a trace of surprise and perhaps happiness, though nothing tangible was betrayed in her tone. The very definition of the word _diplomatic. _

She turned back towards me, he face softening ever so slightly. "_Alors, _but I have yet to ask for your names. Monsieur Malfoy, allow me to present…" she paused, and I answer on our own behalf. "Charles Black and Isabelle Belmont, at your service," I fight to say in a level tone, fight to prevent the rage and hatred I feel for this man from reaching my eyes.

"_Bon. Monsieur Black, Madame Belmont, je vous présente Monsieur Malfoy. _If you will pardon me, I bid you _adieu." _With a speed unnatural for one her size, she moved towards another couple, another smile plastered to her face.

"Mr. Black is it, my wife is a Black by birth. I was unaware that there were any remaining lines in Britain." It was inevitable, I should have to attempt civil conversation with one of Voldemort's inner circle. I suppose I came to this banquet with the intent of spying, and from here on out I'll be careful what I wish for.

I laughed lightly and suddenly, an outlet for some of my frustration and anger. Fleur was once again at my side, her arm softly wrapping around my own, and I looked down briefly, realizing that my hands are clenched tightly. Relaxing my hands, I turned once again to the Malfoy patriarch.

"I'm afraid our introductions weren't complete. We're American actually – from Montréal." I shrug, "My family traces its origins back to Britain, certainly, but whether I can claim any familial link to your wife, however ancient, I cannot say." My eyes scanne the room, and not far away I could see the familiar face of Narcissa Malfoy, her eyes fixed upon us, a slight scowl across her face. Clearly, she did not wish to be here, and not for the first time I wondered if she was in fact the brains of the Malfoy clan…they certainly don't rest with Draco, and I think less about her husband each time we meet.

"Ah yes…from the Confederation then…I trust you are finding your visit to the continent appealing." Even in polite conversation, Malfoy's distaste is obvious. I nod, ignoring his jibe and answering his direct query. "Yes indeed, the people have been most hospitable, and I daresay I've learned much during my stay here."

He nods absently, his eyes resting for a moment on Fleur's figure before moving to the ever retreating form of Madame Devereux. Clearly, he wanted to talk to her and just as clearly, she has no desire to. With a last lingering look at Fleur, he turned back to me. "A pleasure Mr. Black…Ms. Belmont. If you'll excuse me, I fear my company is needed elsewhere." Without waiting for a response, he turned around, heading not towards his fleeing target, but to where his wife stood, talking to a wizard dressed in what looks like a close approximation of a muggle business uniform than any of the multitude of robes around the room.

As soon as he left, Fleur shivered a moment before disentangling herself from me. Whispering softly, she huffed, "that man, he is repulsive and rude. _Englishmen, _they are as subtle in their appreciation of beauty as a werewolf under a dementia curse." I'm not about to remind her that I'm one of the Englishmen in question, and allow her to continue. "And you…he is one of your enemies, no doubt. Fortunate, he did not notice who you really are."

I nodded, deep in thought. In truth, I wouldn't expect anyone to figure out easily who I really am, save perhaps my closest friends and a few of the Order. Growth potion, aging potion, a slight glamour to my facial structure. My hair, now a dark red, is longer, fully covering my scar in case the glamour fails. It was because of the hair, and as a dig at Fleur's true fiancée that I chose the name Charles. Going by Black was foolish, and previously we'd decided upon Smith for its generality, though all that had flown out the window when Lucius Malfoy had all but jumped me from behind.

Still I answered Fleur's unspoken question. "Yes, he is. He was at the Department of Mysteries, and last I'd heard still rotting in Azkaban for his crimes there. I'm surprised he is out in the open like this – his wife is clearly uncomfortable."

Fleur nods. "That is who she is? I had thought perhaps a mistress…no matter… _vous avez raison, elle n'est pas…contente avec cette situation._"

I barely heard her, as another familiar face appeared in the crowd, just beyond the Malfoy's. Standing next to a tall dark witch was a boy my age with a bored expression, his eyes aimlessly searching the crowd while the witch sipped a glass of dark red wine – an action that even from this distance clearly advertised sex.

"The boy over there, next to the witch with the um…glass." Fleur raised an eyebrow, though said nothing. "He's in my year, at Hogwart's – Blaise Zabini." Fleur looked, before her face became cold, dangerous. "Zat is the infamous Madame Zabini? A surprise, I expected something more…"

Filing away _that _unexpected retort for a later date, I continued to scan the room, suddenly wary of the guests. I couldn't place any more names to faces, but there was an eerie pattern to the cacophony of people, set groups that seemed to move at random, yet never failing to orbit the elder Malfoy. They never faced him, never so much as looked in his direction, yet he seemed to orchestrate their movements. They moved as one, and it seemed clear enough from his past interaction that _Madame Devereux _was their final target.

I sighed, slightly bitter at the turn of events. Truthfully, I had gone through the trouble of stealing and copying an invitation with the intent of delving deeper into the mysterious ties between the English and French ministry, and whatever role Voldemort's forces were playing. Still, part of me had hoped nothing would happen, that I would be able to enjoy the evening of luxury, pretending I was as normal as one can be when surrounded by the greatest of human extravagance. Being with Fleur, when she couldn't be a pain in my ass? Bonus. Massive, massive, bonus.

So I was irritated when it appeared my 'saving people thing' was once again going to spoil an otherwise perfect evening. My irritation was only half genuine though – there was never any question that I was going to do the easy thing over the right one. Still, it would have been nice…

"Charles, I do not feel so well, would you mind terribly if we were to leave early?" _Shit. _We've rehearsed a few phrases, and Fleur feigning sickness means she had seen a few of her father's more notable enemies who have the added weapon of being able to recognize her, possibly even through her glamour. I nodded slightly, replying. "Of course, though if you'll excuse me for one moment, I need to wash up."

Our conversation made no sense, and anyone listening in would find the pair of us nonsensical, but I'd issued my own code, that I needed to talk to her in private, and that we needed to stay. Clearly, we have conflicting interests. For a moment, she hesitates, before nodding slowly. I sigh with relief – she was at least going to hear me out. We agreed beforehand, unless unanimously decided, our own lives take precedence. If she doesn't agree with what I say, we're leaving, and that'll be that.

We move slowly out of the main room, relief evident of Fleur's face when the men in question take no notice, moving on past our previous spot towards another floating platter, this time laden with _hor d'oeuvres_ instead of alcohol.

Together, we turn a corner, away from the crowds towards a more private area in the rear of the banquet hall. The restrooms are near by, and we paused for a moment as an old, graying wizard – clearly pissed out his head – stumbled through the door marked '_Hommes_."

"Charles," Fleur responds, still in character, "You are alright, you have not had too much to drink?" I shake my head, trying to pass on what I've seen without alerting any spying eyes. "No, just a moment of dizziness." I laugh, though it's tense and hollow. "I must say I'm surprised, to see so many of my colleagues, all so eager for a word with Madame Devereux." Fleur's eyes widen slightly, and again I'm relieved that behind her flawless beauty is a sharp and active mind.

She looks straight into my eyes, studying my face, and I fight the urge to glance away. It's discomforting, having another person look straight into you, and though Fleur and I have managed to create a functional relationship within the past month, I wouldn't consider sharing with her my innermost thoughts. As I've said before, I find myself trusting her, even though I don't actually trust. Her gaze though, seems to search for my very soul, and the line I've drawn blurs considerably.

Finally, mercifully, she looks away, before looking at my face again, eyes deliberately avoiding my own. Slowly, she nods, before speaking once more. "I will put my trust in your judgment, but if I later find out you truly have had too much to drink…" She lets the threat waver, and I return her nod. Fair enough, it's her life that's on the line for certain if we stay – it's my own that we're gambling on now.

As fate seems to love doing to me, the entire plan instantly went down in flames. A piercing pain went through my leg, and I let out a short scream, stumbling forward before falling hard against the shining marble floor.

"'Arry!" Fleur screamed, and I panicked, our cover obviously blown. I forced myself around, attempting to struggle to my feet while looking for Fleur. My wand was already at hand, a reflex that I'd practiced to death and now might very well give me an edge to save my life. Fleur's face was etched in terror, a wand dug painfully against the pale flesh of her throat.

I looked to the side, at her captor. It was _her. _The woman I'd noticed when I first stepped into the hall, the goddess dressed in the robes the color of the wine in her glass, whose eyes had betrayed the gentle beauty of the exterior. She looked at me, a mocking smile on her lips. As I continued to stare, though eyes blank of recognition, her smile transformed into a soft pout, before a deranged cackle spilled from her lips.

"Potter, our third meeting to date and you still can't tell who I am? What a naughty little boy you are." Her eyes flared, anger beyond the point of sanity. "I'd recognize you anywhere, you dirty little thief. And of course…" Her voice calmed, an oddly seductive quality added to her madness. "I'd recognize your wand."

Her voice had been changed, and I knew there was no way she wasn't wearing a dozen types of glamour, but there was no doubt as to her identity, and recognition and horror battled at the forefront of my emotions, earning another string of deranged cackles from my tormentor, Bellatrix Black.

Oddly enough, my first thought when I got through the raw terror of the moment was, '_Harry, it's time to do some deep soul searching when an overly aggravating French part-veela and a unrepentant godfather murdering psychopath constitute as the women in your life.'_

* * *

AN: To my beloved Canadian readers, who are wondering just what the above was all aboot.

I do not intend to slander your country by having Harry use the term 'American'. Rather, I have hinted earlier that the political landscape of the wizarding world is different than the muggle one, and went as far as to make Mr. Delacour the former ambassador to **The North American Confederation. **Malfoy in this chapter also took Harry's 'American' comment as such. Fact is, I see no reason why a muggle revolution would have any real impact on the wizarding world. As such, there is what I am calling the NAC, which is a single entity. In my notes, its capital is Boston, but for you crazy Canucks out there, whatdya say we make it London, Ontario, and all go home happy?

On a similiar note, there is no magical Republic of Quebec, cause I'm just mean that way.

Now, the French:

_on arrive tout de suite_

we are almost there

_D'accord, la porte, c'est_…

O.K.. the door is...

_Le prochain batiment après La Notre Dame _

The next building after _Notre Dame_

_Venez, ça ne reste pas ouvert longtemps_

Come, it does not stay open for long.

_Bonsoir, Monsieur, Madame. J'espère que tout va bien..._

Good evening, sir, ma'am, I hope all is well...

_Merci, Madame Secretaire, votre ministère a organisé une fête magnifique ce soir.C'est un plaisir d'être présent, pour moi-même ainsi que pour mon fiancé._"

Thank you, Madam Secretary, your minister has organized a magnificent party this evening. It is a pleasure to be presant, for myself and my fiancé."

_Veuillez lui pardonner, il est anglais_

You must forgive him, he is English.

_Oui, Anglais, mais je le compense en épousant une française. Comme ma fiancée a dit, c'est un plaisir d'être ici._

Yes, English, but I compensate by marrying a French woman. As my fiancée said, it is a pleasure to be here.

_Bon. Monsieur Black, Madame Belmont, je vous présente Monsieur Malfoy. _

Good. Mr. Black, Mrs. Belmont, I present to you Mr. Malfoy

_vous avez raison, elle n'est pas…contente avec cette situation._

You are correct, she is not...happy with the situation.

_Hommes_

Men

Two points for naming the cameo.


	8. Chapter 7

_And of course… I'd recognize your wand."_

As the true horror of my situation unraveled before my eyes, my first thought was one of those stupid, insane comments that runs through your head, completely oblivious to the situation. Fortunately, I was able to manage something a little more sensible outside of my own mind.

"Come now, Bella" I drawled, drinking in her figure with an undisguised leer. "You really have gone completely mad, it's our fourth time – the morning after was unpleasant enough to deserve being an experience in its own right."

Inside, I felt as if my intestines had been transfigured into worms, wiggling madly around in my gut. I'd managed a brave face though, and my taunts kept Bella from seizing the initiative – something which I had no doubt she'd use to quickly remove Fleur's head from her shoulders, which would have ended the evening rather sour, even if I did manage to escape with my own body intact.

My brief moment of satisfaction was cut off by a whimper from Fleur, Bellatrix's wand pressed harder into her neck, and Bellatrix's grip was firm, though her hand shook noticeably in anger. Keeping my wand steady, I continued.

"Tell me Bella – we never had time to talk about it earlier. How is dear old Rudolphus enjoying being dead? And his brother?" She was absolutely venomous now, her face twisted into an outraged scowl.

"Ickle Potty, better watch your tongue. Mommy and Daddy never taught him his lessons. What would they say, Potty with a french bitch?" Her voice had a warbling, lyrical tone to it, a mocking tune filled with cruelty and anger, in that damnable baby voice she loves. In a blink, I leveled my wand, and with a loud hiss, uttered, "_incendia verbero."_

As a lethal looking whip of bright blue fire erupted from my wand, Bellatrix reacted – shoving Fleur towards me, forcing me to jolt my still lengthening whip back with a harsh _crack, _the heat sizzling in the air and leaving a line of scorched ash across the gleaming white floor. Fleur stumbled into me, and I pushed her away, violently, sending her down onto the marble. She let out a slight yelp, and in another time, I would have apologized. Right then, I jumped quickly to my right, hissing in pain as a jolt seized my still tender leg, though more importantly avoiding the ugly yellow blot that Bellatrix had shot in my direction.

I cracked the whip again, aiming low, around her legs. She dodged, barely, cursing under her breath at the gown that threatened her movements, before growling "_diffindo", _her wrist completing an elegant downward circle, the lower half of her gown suddenly falling to the ground, a rumpled pile of red cloth.

Fleur was getting up, slowly – fatally slowly – and I pressed the attack, vowing to remember this moment to mock her mercilessly should we survive. I threw the whip at Bellatrix twice more, both times missing by a hair's length. As a shower of translucent balls of green light suddenly came at me in a wide arc, I abandoned my attack, forcing up a semi-transparent shield with a loud "_contego_".

The green balls exploded with an oozing _hiss _against my shield and the walls, and a sharp, metallic smell suddenly rushed my senses. Ignoring it, I moved once more towards Fleur, who had finally entered the fight, a ragged "_verros_" passing from her lips, though the dark purple gash of energy passed harmlessly a meter to Bellatrix's left, earning a low cackle of amusement from said witch.

"Is that the best your whore can do, Potter? Ribbet, ribbet, froggy whore." Another burst of mocking laughter, and again Fleur responded with _verros _and this time her aim was true. Bellatrix however, simply waved her wand in a lazy corkscrew, the curse swerving straight up as if yanked by an invisible string.

The fighting lulled, and for a moment I recognized just how absurd the situation was. Not fifty feet away, just beyond the corridor, scores of festive partygoers were enjoying a peaceful evening, save whatever machinations the death eaters were plotting. Unlike the Department of Mysteries, we were all but fully in the open, and outnumbered the sole opponent. It was not a rushed battle – the sense of urgency tempered by both Fleur's release at the beginning of the duel, and for Fleur and I at least, the inability to move too quickly on wounded limbs. Bellatrix was hindered by bouts of madness, without which, I have no doubt we would have died an agonizing and merciless death in that hallway.

Bellatrix's recent ranting came to an abrupt end, as sharply as it had started, and moments later we were dodging curses, desperately fighting back an array of hexes I'd never heard of before, let alone had any idea as to how to defend against. An angry, dark red bolt slammed into my already wounded leg, the skin sizzling before a ragged tear began to spread, leaving a gash in my leg at least six inches long and a good half inch wide. How deep it was, I had no idea, though it clearly hadn't torn anything vital, as I could still stand. Blood however, was oozing out at an alarming rate, and the pain spasmed throughout my body.

An instant later, I heard a sharp _crack, _turning to see Fleur bring her left arm tenderly against her body, before she hastily erected a shield against what can only be described as a disk of unadulterated darkness, strings of yellow crackling across it.

Her attention focused on Fleur, I once again attempted my own offensive against Bella, raising my voice as I bellowed, "_Sprengen." _

I had no chance of defeating Bella in a fair duel, even with my increased awareness and ability in spell casting. Instead, I aimed at the floor, desperation forcing me to use one of the most basic spells in my slowly growing arsenal.

I shouted a second time, and a third, and a fourth…pieces of marble blasting up from the floor, plaster and mortar visible where the paint had been stripped from the wall in my violence. A white haze of debris filled the hall, and in a final moment of absurd brilliance, I summoned all of it – chunks of marble, giant ham-sized bits of plaster, tightly packed clouds of powder and dust – and just as soon as it came together, banished it directly at Bellatrix, pouring as much of my energies into the final casting as possible.

I didn't bother to hang around at see just how much damage I'd caused for the French taxpayer. Bellatrix was down, temporarily stunned and under a fair bit of building material, but it was obvious she was regaining her standing quickly enough to avoid a quick victory, and we had no hope of winning if the duel continued. Looking around, I saw Fleur beside me, a look of shock frozen on her face, and I grabbed her wrist, pulling her harshly forward.

"Let's go" I muttered, loud enough to get her attention. Without a word, not so much as a nod, she stumbled forward, the pair of us drunkenly moving towards the safety of the crowd.

Just as we passed the archway leading back into the main room, the noise of laughter and music filled my ears, and I cursed my stupidity. "Fleur," I whispered. "_Fleur." _She looked at me, at long last. "She put up wards – how on earth did she manage to put up wards inside one of your Ministry's buildings?"

The look of surprise and horror that suddenly slammed into her expression would have been comical if not for the circumstances. "_Je sais pas. _There is no time, we need to go."

I hesitated, torn between going back and abandoning those inside, the memory of Madame Devereux's situation returning to me with all the gentleness of a rabid thestral. In the end, it was the pain that thrummed in every part of my body, that fought like hell to pass through the adrenaline rush that had kept me going, that forced me to reconsider. The moment I did, a cold fear, as if a crate of ice had suddenly been dumped into my chest, worked its way through my body and into my blood.

Bellatrix, single handedly had forced Fleur and I to run, what the others would be capable of working together was not worth contemplating. This would not be some panicked battle, the death eaters forced to walk on eggshells to recover some lost artifact. Bellatrix had aimed to kill, and if I was going to be of any use, I needed to be alive. The guilt – that would all come later, and in servings large enough to share. For now, there was only the instinct to survive.

I nodded, and relief was clear on Fleur's face as I did. We stumbled along the wall, earning a combination of curious and disdainful looks from guests still sober enough to notice.

Bellatrix didn't follow, and I hoped that whatever luck had been with me thus far kept her away for a few moments more. A minute later, we were outside, breathing the cool, crisp winter air. The sky above us was bright with stars, and our puffs of breath danced in the air as I fought for oxygen to keep moving forward. As if nothing else could have made the night complete, the bells of _Notre Dame _chimed midnight not a minute later. Christmas Day… like I said, my favorite holiday.

Taking another deep breath, I closed my eyes, fighting off a spell of nausea and dizziness that threatened to overtake me. I felt lightheaded, and for a moment I thought of nothing better than to simply fall asleep against the cool stone of the cathedral.

"'Arry? 'Arry! We do not have time…come on." In my situation, I only half noticed the panic that filled her voice as her arms tightened around my own, forcing me forward. "Geoff" I retaliated, but moved forward, slowly.

She led me past the Cathedral, down a small alley behind a block of shops, just short of the river. "Take a moment, and then we will apparate out – back to Munich."

I nodded, opening my eyes slowly before forcing myself back into consciousness, thankfully remembering a very critical part of my apparition instruction. "Wait Fleur, I have to do something about this. My leg – it's bleeding too much, an open wound – I can't apparate."

Fleur looked down, for the first time examining the extent of my own injuries. "_Merde." _Right, not so good then.

With a growl and a struggle to call upon my last reserves of energy, I tore two strips off the sleeves of my fully ruined robes. Grimacing, I casted a silent '_augmenti'_, dampening the first piece of cloth. Who would have thought that learning a spell to cast a stream of rubbing alcohol would have been so useful? I'm moving it up to the top of the to-do list…

I wiped my wound tenderly, cleaning away the worst of the solidifying blood and smears of puss that ran down my leg. "Fleur" I whispered, "you might want to look away – I only know one way to fix this."

Her eyes were questioning, and though her face remained blank, she was clearly unprepared when after casting a numbing spell on the damaged limb, I took another deep breath, before grumbling, "_postulo redimio_".

She gasped, horrified, before turning away, and I fought the urge to say "I told you so." I myself watched in morbid fascination, as thin bands of silk unraveled from the untouched strip, before forcing themselves into my skin, closing the wound tightly. I'm sure that without the numbing charm, it would have hurt like hell. As it was, it was oddly satisfying, a kind of sickening pleasure. Of course, I was slightly delirious at the time.

"Right then, Munich…away we go…" I closed my eyes, leaning once more against the hard stone surface, ignoring whatever shouts Fleur was hammering down my ear. Ever so mercifully, the world turned black…

…I awoke a few hours later, lying in a soft, luxurious bed that was quite obviously not my own. The room was dark, lit by a few dimmed candles, and after blinking owlishly a few times, I slowly adjusted to the room. Or rather, to the silhouette in the corner.

"Who are you?" I growled, though in my state I'd be surprised if it came out as anything more than a whimper. Immediately, I clutched my head, the sudden jolt forward sending my head into a fresh wave of pain, as if someone had dropped a drum inside my skull. The light brightened around the shadows, and it was clear that my watcher was a young girl. A moment later, I attached a name to the familiar face. _Gabrielle. _Stupidly, my interior monologue continued, '_Fleur's sister.'_

She looked at me for a moment, before jumping up and down, filled with an eagerness that made my head swim. "_Maman! Maman! Il se reveille._" I winced, her shouting the final nail in the coffin of my sanity, and I fell back into the covers with a loud _wumph_, a contrite '_désolée' _following a moment later. I let out a soft laugh, not knowing if I was in danger or not, but simply too involved in the absurdity of the moment to care. It was surreal.

I suppose I passed out again, as when I once again registered my surroundings, the room was much brighter – so much that my first reaction was to crawl right back into the thick blankets that surrounded me. I opened my eyes…squinted, really…for the first time when I heard a tinkling laughter. It held an airy lightness to it, much like Fleur's, though it was different, softer. "_Monsieur Potter, _I do hope you are alright?"

Looking up, my breath caught as I gazed upon the woman beside my bed. Tonks had been in my dreams ever since I met her, and even though Fleur was taking that mantle, the woman before me could have thrown them both out in an instant.

Delicate features, works of beauty in their own right, highlighted a flawless face. Her hair was darker than Fleur's – a rich honey color blonde, falling softly about her shoulders, where it seemed to melt into her exposed skin. Her figure was perfect, and even in my drowsy and semi-delirious state it was clear that the woman in front of me, for want of a better word, was nothing short of radiant.

My second thought was one of intense embarrassment and humiliation. Someone along the way had all but undressed me, and here I was, bleeding on sheets worth more than the Weasley's joint fortunes, and gawking unabashedly at Fleur's mother. I'd never hear the end of it.

"_Mon mari voudrait vous parler...comprenez-vous ce que je dis?"_

Ever the elegant guest, I responded, "_Mugh."_

I did nod my head at the same time, and after checking me over once more, much to my horror and again to my horror, my…delight, she finally, mercifully left the room, leaving me to collect my thoughts on what was to come. Fleur had obviously taken me to her parents' estate. The game was up, though whether she had told them anything – hell, if she was even in a state to tell them anything, I had no idea. Comfortingly, my wand was clearly visible at my bedside, and though I doubt I could have cast so much as a tickling jinx at the time, it seemed to indicate honorable intentions.

Ten minutes later, the man whom I'd made a pet project over the last six or so months entered my bedroom, dressed comfortably in a wizard's evening robe, a cigar held loosely in his left hand. Wordlessly, he moved towards me, sitting down in the chair first occupied by Gabrielle, and later by her mother. Unsure how to begin, I asked, "Is Fleur alright?"

He nodded, apparently surprised by my first question, before he answered verbally. "Yes, she is alright, if not a little tired and bruised. She has not said much, but I am to understand you are responsible for saving her life. Thank you."

I nodded, too tired to be chivalrous. I closed my eyes for a moment, and he continued. "I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Potter. A great deal. My eldest…she has been missing for weeks now, as you are no doubt aware. I was wandering if you could perhaps enlighten me on what has passed."

His words were spoken lightly, a gentle push, but his eyes, his expression, brokered no argument. Monsieur Delacour was no fool, and before I'd truly picked up the espionage game, the odds of him finding out a thing or two wouldn't have been terribly difficult if he knew what to look for. It was going to be one of those conversations, and I was never any good at chess…

"There really isn't much to say sir. Tonight, our captors ran into Bellatrix Black, we got caught in the crossfire, and managed to escape anyhow. Truthfully, I have no idea how we ended up here."

He sighed, annoyed, rubbing his empty hand across his face, soothing the lines of anxiety that ran across it. "I will be frank with you, Mr. Potter. When you arrived, my daughter was a mess, but despite her situation, she insisted that I grant you the protection given by the…in English you would call it the 'Host's oath'. No harm or betrayal can come to you here, for the duration of your stay. Now, you awaken, and your first reaction is to inquire about the health of my daughter. Combined with other interesting things, I believe you know much more than you let on."

I tried to keep my face blank, eyes staring unblinkingly at the man I was quickly rethinking of as my captor – I certainly was not about to take the declaration of the oath at face value – especially considering the night's events. He stared back at me, before a rough laugh erupted from his chest.

"You, Mr. Potter, are not the fool some claim you to be. Very well, how about a trade? I will fill you in on a few facts about my circumstances that I think will interest you, and you in return will tell me the truth as to the events surrounding the past six weeks. If you like, I am willing to exchange oaths, that no retributions will be made on the basis of what is said, and that both parties agree to say nothing about it to another living soul."

"You'll forgive me, sir." I responded dryly, "If I've come to think very carefully about oaths recently, and am not entirely trusting of such ambiguous words as 'living' and 'soul'. I'd prefer something a little more clear."

He laughed again, and he seemed both amused and genuinely impressed. "What would you prefer then? Never speak of it? Share with Nobody? However shall we word it?"

I laughed then, a kind of sick wheeze that might have passed for one, anyway. "I'll agree to take no actions against you for actions taken against myself, and to only share whatever I learn, or reveal in any way, the words spoken in this room, with the sole exception of Fleur Delacour. I also agree that each party has the right to withhold information, for personal and political reasons, and that it is up to both parties to come to a balanced exchange of information, outside the scope of this oath. I will do all that, if you will do the same, in every respect."

He paused, appearing pensive before giving me a look of agreement. "Very well, shall we swear to it?" We did, pale silver bonds of magic reaching out between us. Oaths are very severe things, and no one truly understands the magic between them. I suppose it's like swearing to god, though one who takes immediate vengeance when the word is broken. Fun…but effective.

To understand what I do, Mr. Potter, and why I do it, you must understand this. Everything I do, _everything, _is for my daughters, and the necessity of maintaining the family name. To ministers everywhere, power is supreme. To your Albus Dumbledore, the supreme virtue is balance and order. To a majority of pureblood wizards, it is the status quo, the superiority of the ancient history of magic. But for me, Mr. Potter, for the Delacours, it is as it has always been. Honor.

* * *

AN: French

_Je sais pas_

I don't know

"_Mon mari voudrait vous parles...comprenez-vous ce que je dis?"_

_My husband, he would like to speak to you...understand?_


	9. Chapter 8

"I was born in Orléans, not long before Grindelwald's rise to power, and the darkness that covered much of the continent at the time. It is your Dumbledore, that history has hailed as the victor, but there were hundreds, _thousands _of us who struggled against him. It was a dark time for France, both for _les_ _moldus_ and for the wizards." His voice was tinged with a long endured bitterness, tempered by time.

"My family we're nobility – a dying breed in this modern age. Much of our influence and power diminished considerably during the war, and while we were never poor, such times bring to light the importance of more intangible qualities. Honor, Mr. Potter, and Valor, and History – the importance of the Name. Such things often are lost in piles of gold, but they never disappear, and it is the duty of each generation to cherish them before passing them along to the next."

I nodded, and I understood – I've been treated to the fickle winds of fortune, and Monsieur Delacour seemed to recognize my empathy – a thin smile crossing his face as I met his eyes.

"My wife, on the other hand, had a very different childhood. Though her family had been in high standing in the Veela communities, her father was a wizard – she was a '_Sang bas_'. Veela, as you no doubt are aware, have an incredible ability to project an aura of lust and beauty…such a union between Veela and wizardkind is not at all common, for many reasons." He let out a grim chuckle, a bittersweet sound.

"For centuries, law has forbidden Veela to intermarry with wizards, our kind deeming the risk of a Veela hijacking a family line far too great, and in theory, it remains a justified fear, if unlikely. It is typical of wizards to be so short sighted – the Veela are a proud race, not mere objects of sexuality, but a glorification of the female spirit – as deadly and proud as they are beautiful… While they have there own who would use such tricks, as a species they would never throw themselves so wholly into another's dependence – even if only in name."

"Those facts have done little however, to make relations between us anything more than tolerable, and it was only in the chaos of the time that my wife's parents were able to do what they did. Nonetheless, she and her family were ostracized from the greater magical community, and while they maintained their position among the Veela courts, the family's influence diminished considerably, even if the coffers themselves did not."

"And so, a number of unusual events came together, the wheel of fate, for those that believe in such things, began to turn. My wife does not possess the aura, nothing save her natural beauty. As such, her position within the courts was jeopardized, a _sang bas – _a low blood, with a significant lack of Veela magic – unacceptable."

"And then there was myself, with a diminished inheritance and a meaningless title, I was able to…move through the loophole of the law, yes? My family, and hers, saw an opportunity, and an alliance was formed, sealed through marriage. An unusual alliance, but one that would prove most profitable to all involved."

His eyes glazed slightly, his rough grin becoming softer, genuine. "I found her beautiful of course, the moment we met, and hardly more than twenty, I admit that I cared for little else. In time however, I came to appreciate the depth of her character, and I understood just how lucky I was. I had a beautiful spouse, but she was far more than a concubine to warm my bed. She became my partner, my equal, my _wife."_

"Our unusual circumstances have been a mixed blessing outside of the home. We have cultivated many allies, and in doing so have reaped just as many enemies. Right now, I confess it is difficult to tell one from the other. The resurrection of your _Voldemort_ – people here are nervous, they remember all too well the previous Dark Lords, and in their fear, they turn to those most like themselves, those who share the same prejudices. What was once seen as a progressive step forward – the equal cooperation between wizard and Veela – is now looked upon with suspicion, and those who have long opposed me have taken advantage of the fact." His look was replaced with one of deep sadness. "Despite my best efforts, my name is quickly becoming mud."

Any wistfulness in his expression disappeared, replaced with a grim and determined glint. "My two daughters mean everything to me, and I think any man who cannot see the women they will become a fool. However, one must be realistic, and Fleur, unfortunately, has inherited her grandmother's aura. There is nothing for her in France – I only hope that Gabrielle does not follow in her footsteps."

Dammit, but despite everything, I'm still a brave-and-honest-to-the-point-of-stupid kind of guy, and before I could stop myself, I responded, angrily. "You tell me you love Fleur, yet you seem quite willing to abandon her, banish her from her own country. I suppose our families are quite sim–"

His low growl cut me off, anger radiating off him in waves. "Do not ever doubt that I love my daughters, Mr. Potter, but what would you have me do? Do not pretend you understand my situation, you have no child of your own, you cannot possibly feel the torment as I do."

I didn't respond, simply sat there, silently conceding the point. With a nod, he continued. "If Fleur remains here, in France, her future is very much limited, and in the current political clime, even her name is worth little. Her fiancé, from what I heard, is as well as she can expect to do." His calm exterior fell for a moment, replaced with an angry snarl, "unless, Mr. Potter, you think I should bind her to a man who cares nothing for her, nothing more than a _putain _for one of a higher station."

Yes, I'm an idiot – though in my defense I hadn't _intended_ to insult a very powerful and desperate man within his own home by questioning his love for his own family. It just…happened.

He fell silent, and with a gesture, indicated that I speak. I had no idea how to possibly respond – what I could say to take back my previous statement. So instead, I took my half of the bargain, telling him the story of the last six months, starting with the kidnapping of his daughter.

I didn't tell him everything, truthfully, I hardly scratched the surface – leaving out everything involving my watching him. What I did say would have been enough to have me thrown in Azkaban for life if it could be proven, which was far too much information in my opinion, but like Monsieur Delacour, I'm nothing if not honorable. An hour later, he left, telling me Christmas dinner would be ready in another hour, and if I was capable, I was invited to the table. I nodded, before falling once more against the sheets, exhausted.

The dinner, by contrast, was a splendid affair. In contrast with the opulence of the evening prior, dinner with the Delacours was a private affair, familial and with an understated splendor. None of the Delacours had forced the issue, though I imagined that the relief in Fleur's return was a major contribution to the joyful mood, and I was honestly surprised how despite the oath, Monsieur Delacour invited me to what amounted to a reunion, especially given my role as hostage taker in the first place.

Mercifully, Gabrielle never ceased talking, allowing me the luxury of eating the delicacies in front of me in peace. The food was all superb, and though my own cooking is hardly terrible, it was no small wonder that Fleur never seemed satisfied. Imagine my shock when later, I was informed that the _actual _Christmas dinner had been served the night before, and all of this – great plates oysters, a plum, sizzling duck glazed with a pepper sauce, and an assortment of cheese ranging from Camembert to Saint-Marcellin – were leftovers from the night before. A profitable alliance indeed…

The French that buzzed around the table was far too fast and fluid to make any sense of, and so I sat, slightly uneasy when more than once Fleur sneaked a glance in my direction, her expression questioning, and I didn't doubt that she knew her father and I had shared a lengthy conversation, though what she knew of it I wasn't sure. Finally, I was startled by Monsieur Delacour addressing me directly.

"Mr. Potter, what are your plans for the coming days?" They're all looking at me, and though Gabrielle's expression is innocent, the other three were regarding me with various stages of deliberation, Fleur's face slightly wary, her father's carefully blank. Her mother was clearly aware that an uncomfortable situation existed, though said nothing about it, merely sending me an unnerving smile, and saying, "_Certainment, __vous êtes bienvenu ici_."

I nodded, though declined, "_Merci Madame…mais…_" _toss it "_I'm afraid I must return home, no doubt my friends and my professors are worried sick." She nodded, though her expression remained doubtful, and I could have kicked myself for my oddly phrased response. Nothing for it now, but every time I thought I'd mastered the art of subtlety, I managed to muck the whole thing up.

"Of course, Mr. Potter, and no doubt, Fleur will need to return to England as well. She does, after all, have a fiancé waiting there, no?" He spoke casually, though the unspoken challenge was there, and this time, I did not fail to meet it. "Of course sir…I thank you for your hospitality, but I was planning on leaving tomorrow. Fleur may join me, if she wishes."

We exchanged a look, and I begged her, silently, to come with me. Nothing in our oaths would force her to, and after last night, and the fact that I had forced her into this mess to begin with, no matter how honorable my intentions – she was at this point free to do as she chose. Still, our…my position was in jeopardy, and whilst she could not directly speak against me, discrepancy would catch Dumbledore's attention – send him down a dangerous path. Fleur, once again, had me in a tight spot.

She nodded, and I feared my sudden show of relief was obvious to all. No one noticed, fortunately, as they all turned to Fleur as she began to explain in veiled terms why she needed to return with me, and that she'd be back to France to visit for a longer time when all had settled down. Monsieur Delacour spared me a glare for a moment, before the dinner conversation returned to its previously joyful tone.

The next day, we made our goodbyes quickly – or I did at any rate. Fleur lingered, and I felt uncomfortable, as if I was intruding on a personal moment, which I suppose I was. Despite their hospitality, it was clear my presence was something that was merely tolerated by the Delacour patriarch. Madame Delacours seemed genuinely affectionate, though I may have simply misread her natural charm. Gabrielle, bless her, had been thrilled with my unexpected arrival, ever the hero after rescuing her two years ago. With a final round of goodbye's, we apparated, away from the lavish gardens of the Delacour's courtyard, and into a suddenly inadequate, dimly lit, three roomed flat near the Munich city-center. Charming.

"'Arry, I am not certain our previous plan will work – we do not know just how many recognized us from last night."

I sighed, irritated at how things had gone ass over tit in the last few days. "I don't think it matters in the short term – Bellatrix and Voldemort are hardly going to inform Dumbledore of my outing, and I doubt that Bellatrix shared our presence with the others – not after she let us get away. Hell, we talked to Malfoy, and he didn't so much as blink." She looked at me, unconvinced, and I felt the need to vent my frustration.

"We don't have time to come up with a brand new story, and the one we have now is truthful enough that we might get away with it. Not to mention, we look a mess – we'll put on the robes I…acquired, and I've still got the Emaciation Potion stocked away – they'll buy us time, it's not as if I'm intend to go back and finish up a traditional Hogwart's education.

Now Fleur was angry – fantastic, just what we needed right now. "You're plan, 'Arry, is foolish and rash. _Un, _we, you particularly, may look a mess, but it is obvious we have not gone without treatment. Even with the robes, which I admit will do much to cover our appearance, _deux, _your little potion will not work – any healer will know that it was recently ingested, and it will make you look suspicious. _Et trios, _as I have said – we do not know what we are dealing with, and for all we know, your _Daily Prophet _is already bellowing that the great 'Arry Potter was seen at the French Minister, not two nights ago.

Good points, all very good points. She even numbered them. That did nothing to relieve my mood. "Dammit Fleur, it's the best plan we have, and the later we postpone this, the greater chance now of something happening, catching us out. And the potion, who cares – bloody thing is bound to be painful, just say I was force fed the thing before we escaped." I laughed around a forming sneer. "Anyway, I've spent ages in the hospital. Believe me, Grimmauld will be a madhouse –odds are they'll see I'm half starved to death, assume the worst, and off we go. It shouldn't matter anyway, not with the price I paid for it…" I was grumbling now, my argument spent.

I took the potion, waiting the full six hours for it to work through my system. I was wrong – it wasn't painful. It was excruciating. Enough to make me pity Fleur despite my state – she had to pack everything of use by herslef, all while listening to my whimpers and moans as muscle quite literally melted off my body into nothingness. It was a price I had to pay, to ensure my story rang true – I had the antidote carefully wrapped in my cloak, but until I could safely conceal my true state back at Hogwarts, and in the short term, get a few good meals and a long sleep, I was going to be as weak as a kitten, and knowing Molly's penchant to smother, it could grow tiresome rather quickly. It made the self inflicted black eye, and the reopening of some of my more obvious wounds a walk in the park.

We had obtained a portkey to Hamburg earlier in the week, and while neither of us could _make _one yet from scratch, Fleur was adept enough to break through the rather flimsy anti-tampering charms, and change the destination to an unused warehouse in Brighton. Close enough to London that Fleur could apparate the pair of us. Yes, this was growing tiresome rather quickly.

"'Arry", Fleur whispered, just before we took off, "do you trust me?"

My first response would have been a hearty 'no', though I doubt it would have come out as anything more than a whimper. Yet here I was, deliberately weakened to the point that I was relying on Fleur simply to stand up, and after a long moment of deliberation, nodded, a weak 'yeh' pouring from my lips.

"'Arry, when we arrive…I suspect that several of your friends, and no doubt Dumbledore…you must trust me when I say I have another way to perhaps…throw them off the scent, _non_?"

Strange, but she sounded slightly nervous, hesitant. "Huh?" I responded, not for the first time showing off my ability to communicate intelligently.

"You will have to trust me, but I can…I can perhaps make their minds wonder to more…irrelevant topics." I nodded, though clearly clueless. "What I need is for you to understand what I will do. For you, you must simply…follow my aura, yes?"

_Follow her aura, _whatever she meant by that. A moment later, I felt a tiny twinge, a wave of gentleness that urged me to look up, and for a moment I felt the strongest desire to kiss her – nothing passionate, just a gentle touch to convey my gratefulness. _Oh…that._

I nodded, too tired to debate the issue, and shivering in my greasy and dirt riddled robe, we underwent the uncomfortable twisting that follows a portkey transportation. Five minutes later, we came down into the cold London night, just beyond the sight of Grimmauld Place.

We struggled forward, or rather, Fleur struggled as she half led, half dragged me through the drizzle towards our destination. We arrived, and I reached for the doorknob, the door opening instantly at my touch. The corridor was dark, and nearby, it was obvious something of importance was going on – Dumbledore's voice leaked out from the room next door – seems like the Order intended to have Tonks pretend to be me.

A moment later the door slammed shut with a loud _crack. _Fleur jumped at the noise, and we stumbled, dripping over the troll's leg umbrella stand and knocking it over entirely. I moaned, embarrassingly enough in real pain, and we heard voices, frantic, coming down towards us.

"Who is – POTTER! What in Merlin's balls is going on." Moody then, along with McGonagall, and Dumbledore himself.

I wheezed, deciding to seize the moment. "Good evening professor…professor, Moody. I guess you won't need Tonks after all." The girl in question appeared a moment later, slipping in between Dumbledore and Moody, her normally expressive face frozen in shock. I waved slightly, before heaving over, a combination of acting the part and a sincere lashing of pain from the sudden hunger that the potion had caused me. With a grunt, I fell down, the potions effects moving rapidly forward as the last traces of it worked inside my system. As the pain reached its crescendo, the world around me plummeted into darkness.

* * *

AN: French

Special Thanks to Calis Clayr over at DLP for translations of what are essentially nonsensical words (ie: muggle).

_les_ _moldus_

The muggles

_Sang bas_

'Low Blood'

_Certainment, vous êtes bienvenu ici._

Certainly, you are welcome here.


	10. Chapter 9

"And that," Harry ended with a sigh, "was that." The room was utterly silent, Bill looking a rather pale green. "I was lucky," Fleur began, seemingly unsure of what to say. "Compared to 'Arry, it was not so bad. But we are finished 'ere, _non_? I do not want to talk of this again." The last was added with a furious glare at her fiancé, who had the decency to look away, embarrassed.

Dumbledore nodded, ever the compromiser. "Indeed. Mr. Potter, Ms. Delacour, thank you for being so open with all of us. As you can well imagine, we have been most upset about your abductions, and while at times we no doubt say the wrong thing," again, the eldest Weasley looked down, turning a bright red, "I promise you that everyone in this room has your best interests heart."

"Now then," he added in a cheery tone, doing his best to clear the air. "Now that we are finished here, there are but a few short days until term begins once again. No doubt you could find far more interesting ways to employ yourselves without being under the eye of a dreary old headmaster," Dumbledore chuckled. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, Mister Lupin – if I might see you privately for a moment, and then I will be gone. To all of you, enjoy the rest of your holidays." With that, Dumbledore and his small procession left the room, leaving behind a slightly uncomfortable silence.

"Right then... Wizard's Chess, Harry?" Harry sighed internally, relieved. Ron might be impervious to the tension around him, but at times like this, that came in handy. "Sure Ron," Harry answered with a grin. The room seemed to loosen ever so slightly.

Three embarrassingly short games later, and Harry's mind began to wonder. "Harry... _Harry – _your turn mate." Shaking his head, Harry looked dismally at his riotous pieces. _The pawn, the pawn – move him, we can afford to lose him. No! The other one! King's Knight... why do I bother? _'Why Indeed?" Harry sniped petulantly to the offending bishop.

Hermione suppressed a smile – sulking at enchanted objects was surely a sign that things could go back as they had once been. "Harry, pay him no attention. You're doing fine." He wasn't, but that was beside the point. "Anyway, don't the two of you think perhaps four games is enough for a while? You'd really be better off getting some work done."

Ron looked up, gobsmacked. "Bloody hell, Hermione! You can't take a bloke who's been kidnapped and then subject him to _homework! _Why if anything, we ought to get a holiday extension, not rot away in a couple of musty books!"

The argument was lighthearted however, different from most of Harry's memories of Ron and Hermione's constant bickering, and it was clear that they were simply trying to make things easier for him. For the first time since he came back, he felt a twinge of guilt – they could never know what had happened. Shaking his head, he joined the conversation.

"S'alright Ron. Probably ought to get a bit of study done. Dumbledore's going to have me receive private lessons to try and catch me up before anyone notices I'm falling behind, but you know Snape..." Harry looked around, checking to make sure the professor wasn't within earshot. As expected, he was nowhere near. Even so, he lowered his voice. "Great brooding tosser will probably push things as far as he can, going on about what you can do with Boomslang skin or Herbert's Law of Volumes or where to find who-knows-what. Petty bastard."

Two looks of surprise greeted the tail end of his rant. Then, a grin crept across Ron's face.

"Nobody's told you yet... About time I got to be the first to say something! Snape isn't the potions master anymore. New... well old... chap named Slughorn." Ron's face took on a look of jealousness. "Course, he isn't _much _better. Oh, he doesn't pick on anyone, but he plays favorites like you wouldn't _believe. _Even has his own little club for students. Invitation only. Snakes – all the same, really."

Harry nodded, taking this in. He knew the name, though couldn't for the life of him remember where from. Perhaps meeting him face-to-face would refresh his memory. "Hermione... Hermione, you're staring." Harry looked up as Ron was waving his hand in her face, causing the girl to blink twice before blushing slightly.

"Sorry – just impressed. Herbert's Law... oh nevermind!" Both boys grinned, obviously pleased to see Hermione so flustered. Glancing over his friends' heads for just a second to where Fleur and Bill were talking quietly, Harry looked back, responding, "What can I say... impressing you is just something that comes naturally."

Ron let out an enormous laugh as Hermione turned redder. All was well.

The evening continued as pleasantly as the afternoon. Harry, for the first time since his return, stayed awake throughout the entire day, sharing in a large dinner prepared by the Weasley matriarch, and spending the time afterwards in the spacious living room by the fire, spending time with his hodgepodge extended... family.

Under such conditions, it was rather strange that at two in the morning, he was up on the roof, staring up at the night sky, alone, wrapped up warmly in the winter night. "

'Arry?" He jumped slightly, though he had been expecting her. "Hey Fleur." he responded quietly, "Sorry about the scene earlier."

She waved her hands dismissively, though her expression was uncomfortable. "_C'est rien. _In truth, I was more angry at his... timing than his concern. Still, it seemed an opportunity, and so I used it." Harry shrugged. "Still, don't mean to pull you two apart like that."

"_Alors, _you are an amazing young man Mr. Potter, but you are not a seer, are you not." She smiled, a beautiful expression. "_Non, _you are not. And so as we had planned this _rendez-vous _several nights ago, I think you did not bring me up here to apologize for things that would happen in the future. So then, what is next for us, Mr. Potter?"

Merlin's Balls, but could she not say his name like that? Whispering suited her well – very well in fact. Still, those three seconds could be relived at leisure in the future - hell, he needed a pensive anyway. For now though...

"Yeah, um... obviously, I'm going back to Hogwarts. There's some stuff that I need to do there, and uh... well, obviously, I'm going back." He cursed himself for sounding like an idiot. They had discussed this dozens of times, had the plan fully down backwards and forwards. It shouldn't be so damned hard.

Fleur, for her part, looked amused.

"Ah, the great 'Arry Potter in action. He has stuff to do! He has things! Will wonders never cease?" The bite was mellowed by her laughter, but Harry burned nevertheless.

"Yeah well, there's been a slight change of plan, and I need your help. I don't think you're going to like it." She silenced, part curious, part wary. Their relationship had changed over the months, but there was always an edge of uncertainly – their current alliance always at odds with what ought to have been their natural factions. War made strange bedfellows.

"I'm not going to be able to get out before we get back to school, and once we're there, even with all I've learned, six months of training won't be worth anything in terms of getting out of Hogwarts and getting back in without Dumbledore knowing. I need you to send me something... sneak me something into the school." She nodded, slowly, and Harry took a deep breath, before gaining the courage to ask for it specifically.

"Amortentia."

Fleur gasped, and Harry looked up, eyes wide. "Not like _that. _Well... not entirely. But..." He paused, looking down in shame. "I've been thinking it over and over, and I really don't know what else to do. Not without doing something that will hurt them – hurt them words than this anyway." He looked up, meeting Fleur's eyes. He _had _to – had to prove to her that what he was doing was the right choice, even if it felt like he was rotten on the inside, that this plan was turning his heart to so much filth.

"Ron and Hermione... I love them to pieces, I really do. But... they're not ready for this, they won't ever be able to accept what I've done, what I need to do. I've _killed_ Fleur. I've used people, manipulated them in the worst possible way. Don't look at me like that," he snapped, suddenly angry at the hypocrisy of it all. "You and I, we're cut from the same cloth. We're both foolishly idealistic people most of the time, but when push comes to shove, we're twisted and cold and pragmatic. We try and do the right thing, but don't pretend that in doing so, we're always righteous. Because I'm not. I might have been at one time, but I'm not anymore." He stopped, and she made no rebuttal, no defense of her character, of his.

"So, we're playing a very dangerous game here. I lied to Dumbledore, all but told him that Bellatrix was dead. We have a very limited time table, and I have lots to do – stuff that I don't necessarily want being scrutinized or watched, and that means that I can't have Ron or Hermione with me. And I can't push them away, not because it would hurt me or crush them, but because Dumbledore would wonder what the hell is going on. So..." he said with a sigh, "instead, what I need to do is have the relief of my return make them realize their feelings for one another, and if that means they spend a little more time together, then so be it."

Fleur has not uttered a word at all during his rant. She shuddered when he finished, before looking sadly up at him. "You have changed."

He nodded, pacing back and forth on the roof. "Yeah... I suppose I have. What I'm doing... it's wrong, no question about it. And if they find out – and odds are they will, I can't possibly hide something like this forever, they'll have every right to damn my name. But... I'm the chosen one, aren't I? The only one who can defeat Voldemort. So that's what I have to do. The best shot I have at redemption is giving them a world without him in it. Whether it's enough... who can say?"

The stood in silence, before Fleur nodded. "I will get you the Amortentia, but promise me you will never – never ask this of me again. I understand – I do not approve, but I understand that there are some things that you must do. I however, cannot. I will do this for you this once, but that is all. I have, as you say, drawn my line in the sand. After tonight, I will not cross it, _comprends?_

He nodded, relieved, until he saw the glint in Fleur's eye – the putting together of another puzzle piece. _Damn._

_"_You told Dumbledore Bellatrix Black is dead? Why, why on earth would you do something so foolish?"

"Well, actually, I told him Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. Since I rather forcefully killed her husband, I didn't _really_ lie" he responded glibly, before taking in her frown. He let out a shaky breath. "Fine. I told him because he needs a loophole. When I run away next time, it's for good – until either I'm dead, or Voldemort is. I can't fight this war under the restrictions of an underage wizard, and I can't _not_ fight this war – not when every day more people die."

He paused for a breath. "And when that happens, Dumbledore needs to be able to reverse the process, figure out what happened – not waste time trying to find me when I won't be found. Bellatrix won't be out and about for a while. First the wand, then I bested her husband and his brother. Then, the Christmas party – no, Voldemort won't have Bellatrix out on her own for a while."

"You have gambled Harry. I only hope you have not done so foolishly."

A tight laugh. "Me too Fleur, me too."


End file.
